


Air

by LadyKeane



Category: LazyTown
Genre: (Not Sport Robbie or the kids), Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyone who knows me well could guess this was inevitable, Byronic!Robbie Rotten, Character Death, Fortune Teller Robbie, Literary pastiche, M/M, Milford is everybody's uncle!, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Number Nine is kind of a douche, Orphans, What would Charlotte think of this!?, a bit of elf lore, mangled icelandic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKeane/pseuds/LadyKeane
Summary: A Lazytown remix inspired by Charlotte Brontë's 'Jane Eyre'. Sportacus, a young elf fresh from school and full of vigour, seeks a calling in tending to the health of human children. He finds a position in a small country backwater, looking after the motley young wards of the town's mysterious master.
Relationships: Robbie Rotten/Sportacus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then. The question isn't so much 'can I write a "Jane Eyre"-inspired remix of Lazytown'. It's more like 'SHOULD I write a "Jane Eyre"-inspired remix of Lazytown?' (The answer is yes. Just try and stop me, suckas.)
> 
> This story is one of those little monstrosities that popped out from the back of my mind, fully-formed, demanding to be written. I hope it is at least somewhat entertaining.
> 
> Those who know 'Jane Eyre' will know when to expect character deaths to occur, but I will give a heads up all the same.

Aunt Sara straightened my collar roughly. The door to the headmaster's office opened, and we were directed to sit before a massive mahogany desk. Its occupant was a tall, stern, colourless man. His pointed elven ears were hidden beneath a wide mortarboard cap.

'Mrs Skuasdóttir, welcome. I thank you for considering Cowan Bridge School for Changelings. I trust that this is your nephew?'  
'Yes, Mr Bogle.' She swatted at my midsection, bidding me to sit up taller. 'He is my brother's son, and is ten years of age.'  
'So small! Are his parents currently living?'  
'His mother died when he was an infant. His father travelled extensively. We have not seen or heard from him in many years, so we can only assume that he too died on his journeys.'

Mr Bogle's eyes narrowed at me. 'Stand up.'  
I did so, with hands folded.  
'What is your name, boy?'  
'Spartacus Magnússon.'  
'And are you a good child? Do you do as your aunt commands?'  
I looked to Aunt Sara warily before answering. '...Ég reyni að vera góður-'  
'ENGLISH!' She screamed.  
'I try to be good.'

Mr Bogle did not seem convinced.  
'Do you know what happens to magical children who are rejected by their families?'  
'According to the Fairy Queen's law, they are exiled from the Fairy Realm when they are grown, and must live among the humans.'  
'And will you comply with this fate, and abide by the strictures of the law?'  
I thought for a moment. 'I will make sure to never get caught.'

The headmaster raised slowly from the desk. He shuffled over to an umbrella stand by the door, and selected from it a long black cane. He turned to me, and with no warning, rapped the back of my legs with the object. I held onto my tears, struggling to remain standing.

'Mrs Skuasdóttir. Here at Cowan Bridge, our aim is to render the cast-off children of the fair folk into simple and hardy beings. Fit for the bounds of human society. They are moulded to be plain, obedient and inconspicuous, and their magical instincts are discouraged as much as possible. You must catch these tendencies young, before they have a chance to flourish.'  
Aunt Sara nodded. 'Your aim is perfectly judicious, sir. I wish him to be brought up in a manner suiting his prospects. To be made useful. To be kept humble. Spartacus is prone to deceit and trickery. You must punish him accordingly.'

Anger fizzled in my chest, which I held down with all my strength.  
Not three weeks ago, I had been attacked by Aunt Sara's son Jón. One grey afternoon, while playing alone in the family garden, I had found a blue rubber ball. I spent a merry hour or so throwing and catching and boucing the toy, until my cousin Jón came upon me. He proclaimed the ball to be his sole property, and leapt upon me with his considerable heft. His father being a troll, the boy was twice my size and could easily overpower me. This was far from the first of his assaults.   
  
However, this time, some latent urge in me now broke free. I found the strength to fight back, biting his ear and then hurling the ball to strike him in the face.  
For this insurrection, Aunt Sara had locked me in my parents' old room, which I was told was haunted by their ghosts. A long and fitful night I passed in there, crying loudly, begging my aunt for mercy.  
When the morning finally came, I was hauled downstairs, and my aunt stood me before her. She declared me a long-time bully and tormentor of her precious, fautless Jón, and that my claims of his persecution of _me_ were all lies.

Mr Bogle tutted. 'There is no sight so sad as that of a naughty child. This proves you have a wicked heart, Spartacus.'  
'Unjust - unjust!' said my reason, though I schooled my expression to remain calm.  
'Mrs Skuasdóttir, I believe the rigours of our school program will be the perfect remedy for this wayward elf boy. With your excellent patronage, we will take him on at the start of next term.'  
'You are welcome to him,' she replied. 'He may remain here at the school til then, I do not care to take him back to Iceland with me.'  
'Very well. Spartacus, you shall bid your aunt farewell now.'

She rose, and stared down at me. 'Will you thank me, nephew, and give me a kiss?'  
I looked her in the eye. 'Nei, ég mun ekki!'  
'Whelp!' Cried Mr Bogle, and struck me again with the cane.  
'See to it that his education is firm. Goodbye, Mr Bogle.' The door slammed shut.

Soon I was collected by a school monitor, clad in a grey mask and long black cloak. I was led through the moonless courtyard to a long, low dormitory, similar in structure to the old, turf-topped longhouses I had known in my native land. I was deposited onto a plain cot and left alone. I wept in the dark without restraint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, lots of magical world-building in this part of the story. I have pulled references from here and there, mostly folklore/myth from Norse and British Isles tradition.  
> Furthermore, Cowan Bridge School is the name of the institution that Charlotte Brontë and her sisters were sent to during their childhood. It served as the inspiration for Lowood School in 'Jane Eyre'.  
> Granted, my use of the term 'changeling' is a little different to the traditional meaning (an elf-child left in place of an abducted human child). However, I like the slightly skewed use of the word in reference to a larger mythos of magical and human children inter-changing, or shifting from one world to the next.


	2. Chapter 2

Cowan Bridge School for Changelings was tucked away in the countryside of Northern England. Elven charms concealed it from the sight of humans, though its alumni were all destined to live out their adult lives in the non-magical world. Fae, elves, nymphs, all manner of orphaned or abandoned magical children made up its student body.

A plain stone complex, the school was also a working farm. Many lessons involved physical labour and craftsmanship; Mr Bogle believed that we were best suited to menial vocations, where interaction with human colleagues would be simple and largely impersonal. He did not trust us to master the finer forms of human technology and communication.

My first day of lessons was in the chilly pall of January. The inmates of the dorms were awoken at 5 a. m. by the bell. We were made to wash with basins of cold water before dressing in the plain linen tunic that was our uniform, and then sat down for a breakfast of coarse-milled bread and cheap offcuts of cured meat.  
While there were many seasoned, long-time students who appeared to rail at this regime, it suited me - I was an early riser naturally, and the chilly water and simple fare were an odd comfort, akin to the lifestyle familiar to me back in Iceland.  
I did notice one small goblin boy attempt to warm his icy basin with a magic charm, before washing his hands and face. This was corrected by one of the school monitors, with a hard strike to the back of his legs with a cane.

The lessons were rigorous. Many of them consisted of tending to livestock (namely mucking their stables), basic upkeep of the farmstead buildings, and learning to maintain machinery. Some hours were dedicated to reading and writing in English, mathematics, and a rudimentary sort of human social studies class. We were taught about their history, culture, and general social customs. This last lesson I found the most engaging, in addition to the basic carpentry skills taught to us by a gnome teacher named Mr Hardy.  
He fuctioned as a permanent farmhand of sorts. After completing the day's task, whether it be fixing a fencepost or verandah stoop, he would send us out into the cold to collect firewood. This was one of the rare moments we were allowed to wander freely outdoors, unfettered by the constant eyes of the dour, masked school monitors.

We were also allowed a modicum of freedom during our recess hour, at four o'clock. However, given the dark and the chill of Midwinter, most children opted to huddle under the eaves of the school buildings, pulling their meagre grey overcoats close around themselves. In corners of the yard obscured from the monitors, some students cast covert were-flames for warmth.  
I did not huddle, in fact I darted out into the snow-drifts, following my instinct to move. I tore through open fields, jumping, running and skipping, desperate to indulge in my scant daily liberty. Feeling my muscles stretch and spring was a wecome respite after the dull repetitive activities of the school day. I savoured the fresh, freezing air that filled my lungs.  
The five-minute-warning bell rang all too soon, and it pained me to turn around and race back towards the school.

I encountered two other children as I passed through the yard, a lanky _alp_ boy and a little leprechaun girl. They fixed me with guarded stares.  
'Look at this speedy lad,' said the girl, with a light Irish brogue. 'Can't sit still, can you mate?'  
'Mmm,' the boy agreed.  
'I'm Spartacus.'  
She extended a hand. 'I'm Penny, this here's Jives. Least that's what we call him.' She indicated her companion with a tilt of her head. 'Sleepy as an old cat, he is.'  
'Are you lot ever allowed to play any ball games?' I asked them. 'I haven't played with a ball or anything like that since I was back at home.'  
Penny laughed bitterly. 'This is your home now, mate. And if Old Man Bogle ever caught us playin' games, he'd stick us all on a spit roast.'  
This new information stuck my heart like a dagger. 'We cannot play games?'  
'Not unless you can keep it a secret from the school monitors. In the girls' dorm, we got a co-ordinated poker and whist racket goin' after lights-out.'  
'You haven't gotten caught?'  
'A few near misses, but so far Bogle don't suspect nothin'.'  
I decided I liked these children very much. 'That's very brave of you.'

The final bell rang, and we made for the school hall. I raced ahead of my two new friends, leaping up the front steps in a single light bound.  
'Think I'm going to call you "Sportacus",' Penny said. 'What do you think, Jives?'  
'Alright, guy. 'E's Sportacus.'

The regiment of school days trudged along, and I soon grew used to the confined life of lessons, labour, strict obedience and preciously brief moments of freedom. At almost all times, the school monitors watched us. Some students entertained the rumour that they were a troupe of stone gargoyles, brought to life by Mr Bogle, and completely under his thrall.

***

'In 1492, Christopher Columbus set sail from Spain on the _Santa María_ , headed across the Atlantic. What was he in search of?'  
A small handful of students' hands went up, and Miss Morgan, our goblin social studies teacher, nominated Penny to answer. 'Pestella?'  
'A westward route to the Indies, Miss?'  
'And where was his first landfall?' She now indicated my own raised hand.  
'The Bahamas, Miss?'  
She struck my hand with a ruler. 'Not good enough, Magnússon. I want to know the exact island. Sindrisson?'

The class turned its attention to a pale, dark haired elf boy of about fourteen, who had been staring dreamily out the window. 'Pardon me, Miss?'  
'Sindrisson, have you been paying attention at all?' Miss Morgan stalked up to his desk and struck its surface with the ruler. All the students flinched sharply.  
'What was the first island that the _Santa María_ made landfall on?'  
The boy's large blue eyes stared back at the teacher with unguarded fear.  
'I'm sorry, Miss.'  
The ruler now made contact with the back of his hand.

'Children, pay attention to this wretch. Sindrisson here is a hopeless scatterbrain, and if you wish to make it in the human world, you would do well not to copy his pitiful example. I will be assigning you with extra remedial study.'  
'Yes, Miss.' The boy bravely held back tears.

We were freed from the classroom for recess. While it was still cold and dark, the snows from earlier days had melted, leaving the English landscape as a mix of brown and grey. I indulged in my usual playtime, cartwheeling over the spongy cold earth. At length, my gambols took me out to a copse of trees, through which ran a small frozen stream.  
Next to this, perched upon a large boulder, I beheld the dreamy elf boy from earlier.  
  
'Góðan dag!' I called. 'Sindrisson, right? You are from the huldufólk, too?'  
'Yes.' His voice was distant and distracted. He was clutching a shiny stone, examining it with great care.  
'What's your given name?' I asked.  
'Kristófer.' He did not look up from the stone. 'My family was from an elven clan near Þingvellir.'  
'Are your parents still alive?'  
'My father is, though he has taken a new wife, a _vatnavættr_. He felt I was too weak to help with his new household.'  
'So you like the cold, like me.'  
'Yes, I like coming out to this stream alone, so I can look at my crystal.'  
'Can I see?'

I had hopped upon the boulder to join him. He peered up at me with wan, pale eyes, and reluctantly handed over his treasure. The stone was smooth and glossy, catching what little daylight was left. A soft, inner warmth radiated from it, soothing the surrounding chill.  
'These are like the ones they make for elf heroes. You can't let the school monitors see this.'  
'Of course not,' he insisted, and gently took back the crystal. 'This is the only one I ever made. My father helped me to forge it, before he sent me here.'  
'Do you miss Iceland?'  
'You ask too many questions,' he retorted, though his words were without any real malice.

We heard the distant peal of the five-minute-warning bell.  
'Come on Kristófer, we can race each other back.'  
'I've seen how fast you can run. The other children call you Sportacus, yes? I can't run very well.'  
'Then we'll walk back together,' I insisted.  
He pocketed his crystal, and took my cold hand in his.

***

Five o'clock was given over to quiet study time: the students would all sit at the long tables in the main school hall, and pore over their workbooks and textbooks. The monitors patrolled up and down the rows of children, on the lookout for any signs of horseplay or distraction (or worse, magic).  
Dinner would follow this activity at seven o'clock. But this evening, before any food was served, Mr Bogle stood up from his chair at the head table.

'I have something to discuss with the students. Miss Morgan, please fetch me that stool.'  
She dragged a rickety wooden stool out in front of the head table.  
'Thank you. You there, boy, come forward!'  
His pitiless eyes shot towards me, and he beckoned with a spindly finger. All other heads turned my way.  
With a storm roiling in my gut, I went forth.  
'Stand on that stool,' Mr Bogle commanded. I did so, careful not to topple, given its unstable frame.

'Boys and girls, do you see this child?'  
Of course they did, I felt their eyes like burning glasses against my skin.  
'You see he is yet young, a normal little elf boy, if somewhat puny. Do not be decieved by his innocent appearance, for evil has already begun to fester within him. My children, it saddens me to tell you that you must be on your guard against this boy. Shut him out of your discourse. His soul is a tainted one that must be atoned, for this boy is a liar!'

A pause, and a wave of murmurs passed around the room. My heart seared and ached with humiliation, would my new friends now reject me?  
'I learned this fact from his benefactress, Mrs Sara Skuasdóttir of the Icelandic huldufólk. She raised this ingrate from his infancy, and her kindness was repaid with transgression and deceit! For his crimes, let this boy stand there for the remainder of the evening, as we partake in our dinner. Let no-one speak to him.'

Treacherous, silent tears had already begun running down my cheeks. The discomfited children turned their faces from me, and focused on the food that was now placed before them.  
I watched, hungry and miserable, as the others around me ate in silence, returned their plates to the kitchen trollies, and filed out for the dormitories. I was told to remain there until lights-out. The door to the hall was shut, and I was left alone.

An excruciating hour passed in the dark. I sank into the spectre of my persecuted past, and felt passionately sorry for myself, as only a disparaged child can.  
Eventually, the door creaked open once more.  
'Don't be afraid Sportacus, it's only me.'  
The soft footfalls of Kristófer approached me in the gloom. He wrapped a gentle arm about me, and helped me down from the shaky stool.  
'Mr Hardy asked me to bring you to his room, as well as give you this.'  
From the pocket of his tunic, he produced a large, crisp red apple. I bit into it feverishly, and the sweet flesh saturated my dry mouth.

***

I was led by Kristófer to the cozy, cluttered confines of Mr Hardy's office. The place smelled of freshly shorn timber and cinnamon. I was sat upon a soft, overstuffed couch.  
Mr Hardy hailed me with a serene smile. The gnome was not very elderly, but he bore the gnarled brown face and white bushy beard of his kind.  
'Now, young man. What's all this nonsense about transgression and deceit?'  
I looked down at the stripped, yellowed apple core in my hands, and burst into a fresh torrent of tears. Kristófer sat down beside me.

'My aunt told Mr Bogle that I was unkind, and lied to her, but it's not true!' I snivelled. 'My cousin tormented me constantly, and the first time I fought back against him, I was surrendered to this school! But now everyone will hate me for what Mr Bogle said!'  
'Not everyone hates you,' said Kristófer. 'Perhaps eighty people at most were in that hall.'  
'That's all the people I know in the world, so that's everyone to _me!_ '

Mr Hardy gently plucked the apple core from me, and dropped it in the rubbish bin. 'You should be aware by now that Mr Bogle is not entirely well-liked at this school, despite his being respected. He has a cruel streak, and has made similar spectacles out of other students.'  
Kristófer nodded. 'If anything, I would venture to say that the others could only feel more sympathy for you after tonight.'

'I have observed you in my classes, Magnússon, and what I have seen is a bright, eager student whose feelings are earnest. Knowing that this claim stems from the relatives who abandoned you makes me doubt it even more. I certainly do not hate you.'  
'Nor I,' Kristófer added.

Mr Hardy now reached into a wooden cabinet, and pulled out a ceramic container. 'I'm sure a growing boy like you is still hungry.'  
Inside was a delectable loaf of seeded bread, which he served amongst us with luxurious helpings of butter.  
'You have a very nimble, airy manner, Magnússon. I would not be surprised if you were a descendant of the famous Íþróttaálfar.'  
'Who?'  
'They are a legendary dynasty of Icelandic elves, famed for spurning a hidden life to travel the world and protect human children. I'm not sure if they are still around, but in my youth I recall meeting the eighth Íþróttaálfur, Númer Átta. Crazy flibbertigibbet of a thing, he was, with his baggy green clown pants, and the crystal on his long cloth hat.'  
Kristófer and I exchanged a meaningful look.  
Mr Hardy continued, after a large mouthful of buttery bread. 'You could perhaps use that as inspiration. One day, when you are grown and sent into the human world, you could continue this legacy and look after vulnerable human children who need your protection.'

The thought cheered me. 'Perhaps I can. But... what if Mr Bogle's claims about me somehow spread? Then no-one will trust me.'  
Kristófer rested his pale hand on mine. 'Even if the whole world hated you and thought you wicked, if your own conscience absolved you, you would not be without friends.'  
'Indeed lad, you have friends here in this very room!'

We continued chatting for another hour, feasting on the bread. I listened to Kristófer and Mr Hardy discuss sophisticated matters of magic that were well beyond my juvenile understanding. How impressed I was, by their complex conversation!  
'How are you feeling tonight, then, Sindrisson? Are you in any pain?'  
'Not really, sir. Perhaps a little ache in my chest, but no worse than normal.'  
'Very well. Let me get your dosage.'

From his cabinet, Mr Hardy now extracted a dark glass bottle and little phial. He carefully poured a precise amount of dark green liquid into the vessel, and passed it to Kristófer. 'Bottoms up, lad.'  
The boy gulped it down. He then looked to me, and must have percieved my curiousity. 'Remember I told you that my father deemed me too weak to help him? I have a sickness, which saps my strength.'  
A faint, tight feeling clutched my insides. 'Is it like a sugar meltdown? Like other elves?'  
'It's a little different to that, but please, I don't want you to worry.'  
'Indeed,' said Mr Hardy, 'in fact, the other helpful medicine is rest, for you both. Off to bed with you boys, and may the gods bless you!'  
We wished Mr Hardy a good night, and once laid in my cot, I enjoyed a deep and serene slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alp - a creature from Germanic folklore, similar to an elf and considered to be the male equivalent of a mare (as in night-mare). I think that a sleep-related creature suits Jives well.
> 
> Þingvellir - A famous, heritage listed national park in southwest Iceland, which features the continental rift between America and Europe.
> 
> Vatnavættr - a creature from Icelandic folklore, a spirit that guards waterways.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for character death towards the end of this chapter.

The weeks rolled on, and Winter faded into a rainy, green Spring. I awaited the backlash from Mr Bogle's denouncement of me with an uneasy heart. But just as Mr Hardy had predicted, it never came. The attitude of most other students towards me was benign indifference: in their eyes, I was just another unfortunate, uniformed captive of Cowan Bridge School.  
  
I settled further into my routine, which included lively chatter with Penny and Jives at meal-times, while I spent my recess exploring the countryside with Kristófer. We would toss pebbles into the now thawed forest stream, pick wildflowers, and speak in Icelandic of our shared homeland. He would tell me of glaciers and ice caves, and his father forging crystals under the Northern Lights. I described to him my old Summer days of chasing rabbits, and swimming in the frigid, iron grey ocean with seals and diving seabirds.

I also sat by Kristófer's side each night, as Mr Hardy administered his usual dose of medicine. Though I hoped fiercely for my friend, I did not see any marked improvement in his frail constitution. If anything, under the humid Springtime rain, he seemed to wilt a little bit, like an overwatered plant.

***

'Escape,' Penny whispered. 'Mutiny. Now the nights aren't quite so cold, we'll fare much better out in the wilderness. I can recall enough of my mother's leprechaun magic to trick human travellers out of resources. And Jives can cast a sleepin' spell on us all each night, so we get safe, undisturbed rest. What do you say?'

My heart pounded. 'It's such a risk. It could be very dangerous out there.'  
'All the better that we escape as a team, to protect each other! You don't happen to know any elf magic, do you?'  
I shook my head. 'My family never taught me.'  
'Ah. Well, perhaps once we're out of this dump, your instincts will sharpen, or something. How about you, Kristófer?'  
He frowned. 'I don't know... only if Sportacus goes. Then I'll go, too.'  
'See?' Penny thumped the table triumphantly. 'Solidarity, just as I were sayin'!'

Two school monitors glided over to our table, staring us down. Penny shrunk, face cast down. They soon deemed our behaviour acceptable and departed.

'Okay,' she continued, now in a softer tone. 'Are we all in? Any risk out there is way better than bein' stuck here with Bogle and his gargoyles! Jives?'  
'Yeah, count me in, mate.'  
'Boys?' She looked to me and Kristófer.  
'You could get back to Iceland and see the puffins again,' she urged.  
I steeled myself. 'Then count us in, too.'

The four of us clasped hands, and pledged to embark on this adventure.

***

Our plan was laid out in detail by the inventive girl. On the next coming Friday night, while filing out from dinner and back to the dormitories, we would feign food poisoning. Slowly, one by one, we would ask to be excused for the bathroom. We would then sneak off to an old disused storage room to gather travel supplies. The blankets on our dorm cots would already be stuffed with pillows, so as to suggest we were sleeping off the illness. Penny felt confident in her ability to cast a short, simple glamour to make this ruse look more convincing. I prayed that the school monitors would not be able to detect her casting it.

Once everyone else was settled in bed, we would then sneak into the kitchen to pack some food. With no further delay, we would escape out of the staff entrance, pass through the grounds, and from there to uncertainty and freedom.

To my surprise, delight and trepidation, it worked.

***

Jives and Penny loped ahead, carrying their plunder. I went at a slower pace, taking Kristófer's frailty into account. I turned my head to watch the school complex fall away from sight, behind a tree-lined hill.  
Once we had put a few miles between ourselves and our old prison, Penny howled in exulation at the bright smoky moon. 'YEAH! Freedom, lads! Now let's make for Cowan Bridge itself!'

Cowan Bridge School was named, of course, after the landmark of the same title that lay nearby. The little stream near the school widened to a river at this crossing. The ancient structure was a humpback bridge of stone, about ten yards wide and eighty yards long over the river. As soon as it was crossed, one would have travelled into another county borough.

We continued downhill, and gradually, the sulphur-yellow gas lamps at the bridge's threshhold came into view. Even Kristófer began to pick up the pace as we drew closer. Skimming across the wet grass, we hit the paved footpath, and finally mounted the bridge.  
'Gods,' cried Penny, 'would I love to see the look on old Bogle's face once he realises that we're-'  
  
Hunching like a troll at the other end of the bridge was Bogle himself, flanked by two of his ghastly monitors.  
'Wicked, evil children!' he thundered. 'You will be punished!'  
He raised a spidery pale hand, and shot forth a devastating bolt of magic lightning.

Penny and Jives managed to duck out of the way in time, and I hauled Kristófer with me out of its path.  
'YOU! ELF BOY! This scheme was your doing, was it not?'  
'Leave us alone, you tyrant!'  
I shielded Kristófer behind one of the gas lamp pillars, darted to the centre of the bridge, then faced Bogle again.

He shot another bolt of lightning my way, and I easily weaved away from it. I attempted to draw him further up the bridge, away from the others. His volley of dark magic was parried continuously by my jumps, skips and flips.

Penny leapt upon his back, wrapped her sturdy little arms about his neck and attempted to strangle him. She was thrown off, and she and Jives were quickly restrained by the two lurking monitors.  
My head was full of panic and fury. Desperate to subdue him, I rushed at him, preparing to deliver a kick to his horrid face. He charged another ball of lightning between his hands, and raised it, ready to fire.

'Sportacus!' Kristófer's feeble form jumped in front of me.  
The lightning bolt hit him square in the chest. He fell, and the world as I knew it went silent and sluggish.  
I dropped to his side, uncaring that the vile dark elf was looming before me. Kristófer was shaking violently, his light blue eyes blown wide with shock.  
Penny and Jives, still in the grip of the two monitors, likewise screamed my name. Bogle was about to strike at me again.

Before he could move another inch, a burst of brownish, golden light rapidly bloomed over the bridge. A deep, swift whoosh popped my eardrums. When I looked up, Bogle hung over me, mid-strike, a mad sneer plastered to his face. He was completely motionless, like an ugly statue. As were the two monitors.  
'Children! Are you alright?' A blessedly familiar voice reached us from the school's side of the bridge.

Mr Hardy and Miss Morgan rushed up to the gruesome scene. The latter snapped her fingers, and Penny and Jives were freed from the frozen grip of the monitors.  
'Bogle,' she announced, 'this will be a matter for the Fairy Queen's Court. It's enough of a crime for a regular magical creature to use combat magic against a child, but for a headmaster to use it on his students...' She tutted briskly. Then she turned her anger on the children she had just liberated. 'And don't think you lot will be getting off easy, either! You'd best look forward to a long spate of detentions!'

Meanwhile, Mr Hardy had immediately seen to Kristófer. He was casting a spell of soft golden ribbons, emanating through his hands into the boy's chest. His manic shaking soothed, his eyes lost their unsettling glaze. Mr Hardy's own eyes were closed, and all through this procedure, he sang a deep soft enchantment. As I watched this, I felt my rapid heartbeat begin to abate.

Soon Kristófer was out of danger, lying inert and breathing deeply in Mr Hardy's arms. Some of the other teachers had arrived by now, and the gnome grimly looked our way.  
'Take these children back to the school,' he commanded. 'Miss Morgan and I will deal with this mess.'

***

The next day, lessons were called off. Mr Hardy, Mr Bogle, and the monitors were nowhere to be seen. Kristófer, likewise, had not returned to the student dormitory.

The children sprawled themselves liberally across the school rooms and the grounds. They chatted and lounged and even played games. Some petted and fawned over the animals in the barn. Not even Miss Morgan seemed inclined to chide them for this.  
There was a collective knowledge that something had shifted in the school, and a hopeful spirit enlivened the conversation of my peers.

'Word has spread of how you stood up to Bogle,' Penny told me after lunch. 'You've become a bit of a hero amongst the kids.'  
A tall fae girl, who was a colleague of Penny's, spoke up. 'You know what? I heard that old Mr Hardy has taken Bogle straight to the Fairy Queen for punishment. He's even asking her to reconsider our exile to the human world!'  
I knew better than to take this rumour to heart, but I could not help feeling glad.

When Mr Hardy returned that evening, he was greeted with a round of enthusiastic cheers. He addressed us in the school hall: lessons were to resume the next day. However, we would no longer be watched by the masked monitors, and he was adamant that some improvments would be made to our curriculum by and by.

Before I rose from my seat, Mr Hardy placed a hand upon my shoulder.  
'You'd better come to my office, Magnússon.'

***

The air around Mr Hardy's office felt eerily quiet. He ushered me in. Lain upon his soft couch was a bundle of blankets and pillows. In its centre, limp and pale, was Kristófer.  
My heart swelled, and I embraced him tenderly. 'I'm so glad to see you!'  
'Sportacus...' he breathed, his voice soft and thin. 'you are cold. Come and join me under the blankets.'

I looked to Mr Hardy for permission. He nodded once, heavily, and left the room.  
'Are you alright, Kristófer? Does it hurt where Bogle's magic struck you?'  
He hesitated before answering. 'I am very weak.'  
'I will protect you,' I promised, and clutched his hand.

'I think things will be better now,' I continued. 'We will not see Bogle any more. Mr Hardy took him to the Fairy Queen for punishment, and to seek her pity on our school. We may even be able to go home, and never be sent to live among humans!'  
Kristófer looked deep into my eyes. 'I will be going home.'  
This unsettled me. 'You will?'  
'Yes, Sportacus - to my true, final home, in the realm of Ásgarðr.'

After a long, silent moment, the meaning of his words became clear to me. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I clutched his hand tighter. 'No, Kristófer... you can't leave!'  
'I am not afraid. I shall see the faces of the gods, perhaps even Óðinn himself, and I shall play on the branches of Yggdrasill.'  
'No, no, Kristófer!' I choked on my tears, and he lay a gentle arm over me.  
  
Once I had settled a little, he gathered his remaining strength and plucked something from his pocket.  
'You shall have my crystal, Sportacus. You are a hero, and it will guide you in times of trouble.'  
I took it from him and held it tight.  
'Do you think I will see you again? When I go to Ásgarðr?'  
'Yes. I will wait for you. But now is not the time to think of that. Are you warm, elskan?'  
'Yes...'  
He kissed my forehead. 'Then let's go to sleep. Góða nótt, Sportacus.'  
'Góða nótt, Kristófer.'  
The tears dried on my face, and beside my friend, I drifted into sleep.

The next morning, at first daylight, I felt the sinewy arms of Mr Hardy lift me up. I opened my eyes to see the peaceful body of Kristófer beneath me, which would never rise again.

In the grounds of Cowan Bridge School lies a wildflower garden, kept immaculate by its current students. A grave sits within the heart of a ring of lupine and forget-me-nots, marked with a simple headstone. Upon that stone is inscribed the word: 'Endurvekja'.

***

Many years passed. While the Fairy Queen did not fully lift the law of exile on outcast magical children, some of its stipulations were relaxed, over time. Murmurs in her court called for a greater kindness to be extended to those abandoned, orphaned foundlings.

Mr Hardy was assigned our new headmaster, and we students saw changes steadily come to the school every day. Our dull uniforms were replaced with clothes which were warmer, comfortable, and colourful. Ball games and other pastimes were soon freely permitted. Without the oppressive air of Bogle's monitors, children began to chatter and play and roughouse in the corridors, much to the teachers' dismay. Our daily diet was soon augmented by fresh vegetables, nuts, and fish. Best of all were the seasonal fruits now on offer, colourful and bursting with sweetness.  
The standard of our lessons lifted as well. While we maintained our little farm, an arts program was introduced, and we were taught how to use human technology - a computer lab was installed, to the great excitement of all.  
And, after a seminal debate in the Fairy Queen's court, we were finally given lessons in basic fairy charms.

I went on to excel in a number of areas - I was made a senior prefect, and captain of the school football team. I enjoyed carpentry, gardening, and human social studies, and welcomed the nervous new underclassmen at the start of each term, with gentle words of enouragement.

Upon my graduation, Mr Hardy recommended me as a teacher's assistant, and a special dispensation was made for me to remain in the Fairy Realm a little while longer. I spent the first years of my manhood educating youngsters in how to work wood, plant seeds, and kick a ball. And for that little while, the role suited me well.

But with growing frequency, I found myself staring out at the vast blue sky, past the distant purple mountains. All I had known in life had been this little school and my aunt's home in Iceland. Adventure, liberty, flight, all started calling my name.  
I tried to manage these expectations. It was unlikely that I could ever know the grand mythical odysseys of the Íþróttaálfar, that Mr Hardy had spoken of. But in place of that, a new servitude, in an unknown place among new faces, would satisfy me. I begged the fates: let me be put to work, serving those who needed me most.

One afternoon, I was called to Mr Hardy's office.  
The cluttered little space now hosted a computer. He smiled at me, opened an email and gestured to it.  
'An associate of mine showed me your advertisement, Sportacus.'  
There on the screen was the message I had clumsily composed, and posted to all the major on-line human classifieds:  
'Experienced teacher seeks full-time position. Ten years' experience at a private boarding school, teaching children aged six through eighteen. Specialises in horticulture, woodwork, and physical education. Patient and proactive. References available upon request.'

I grimaced. 'I am sorry, sir, I should have asked your permission before I did this.'  
Mr Hardy laughed and shook his head. 'Proactive indeed. You've always have such itchy feet, lad. I want you to take this thing down at once.'  
My heart sank.  
'You need not advertise,' he said, 'for I know of a vacancy that would be good for you. It is not terribly glamourous, but it would demand all of your considerable skill and energy. There is a little countryside hamlet I know of called Lazytown. Odd little town, it is. Overseen by a custodian, who is an old family friend of mine. The place houses five young orphans, the eldest is no more than eight years old. Apparently they are running riot, and he cannot control them. These urchins require some good soul to shepherd and teach them.'

This piqued my curiousity greatly. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but how had these children come to live in this place without an adequate parent?  
'You will live in the town, acting as the childrens' primary caregiver. I warn you, Lazytown is a very strange place, with something of a troubled history. Shall I put you in contact with its custodian?'  
'Please do!'

***

Tears were shed on the morning of my farewell from Cowan Bridge. Handmade cards and drawings were gifted to me from some of the children. Lazytown was a part of the human world, so it was unlikley I would meet my former students again.  
As I exited the school building with Mr Hardy in tow, I cast my eyes upward. Floating above us in the perfect sky was a sleek elven airship.

'What is this?' I gasped.  
'A favour from the Fairy Queen, for services rendered. Made in the style of the Íþróttaálfar, upon my request. Your new chariot awaits.'  
I enveloped my friend in a warm, lingering bear hug.  
'Thank you. Please think of me.'

Kristófer's crystal rested in a pocket close to my heart. I kissed it for luck, ascended the airship ladder, and took off into the boundless skies.


	4. Chapter 4

The maiden voyage of my flashy new airship was something of an ordeal. Even now, I still cannot fathom Mr Hardy's reasoning at gifting me the thing, without first giving proper instruction on how to pilot it. Strong winds and complex control panels flummoxed me on the first day of my journey. At one stage, I pressed a button which caused a bunch of apples to fall out of a hatch, into the sea below.  
But thankfully, its intuitive design eventually began to make sense to me, and the pedals at the helm allowed for a great deal of direct manual control when needed.  
By the third day, I had grasped enough of its mechanisms to be gliding through the heavens with some level of competence.

On the fourth day, I came upon a landscape of green, low-lying paddocks. This was bordered by a ridge of mountains to one side, and the shores of a large lake to the other. In the centre of this charming country lay a neat, compact little settlement: the one I was to now call home. I slowed the airship to a halt, put on the brake, and called down the ladder.

The place was indeed small, perhaps only a few acres at most. It consisted of a compound of cheerfully coloured little buildings, red paved roads, and a network of low, sunshine-yellow stucco walls that delineated the pathways. The houses were likewise small; little more than child-sized cubbies. Lush beds of grass, dotted with apple trees and rows of sunflowers, decorated the space. Overall, I got the feeling of having entered some enchanted toyland.

In the centre of the space stood a larger two-storey building, its front lined with columns. The sole occupant I had yet seen stood in front of this, a dumpy little man with a kind face and a very bald head. He waved at me primly.  
'How do you do! You must be Sportacus. My name is Milford Meanswell, and I am the custodian here. Welcome to Lazytown! You know, young fellow, Mr Hardy spoke very highly of you in his letter - I do hope you enjoy staying with us.'

I shook the man's hand firmly. 'Thank you, Mr Meanswell.'  
'Please, call me Uncle Milford. Everyone here does! Now, allow me to show you around.'  
Despite its odd appearance, Lazytown was by all accounts an actual functioning township. The central building served as a civic office, where administrative duties were undertaken. There was a market and a row of shops, as well as a theatre, a gymnasium and a school hall. Furthermore, permanent residents manned these buildings, as well as a number of other workers - gardeners, janitors, tradespeople etc. As I was given the tour by Mr Meanswell, I spotted a few of them plodding to and fro on their duties. As small as the place was, it seemed to be a perfectly sufficient little community.

I was soon invited into Mr Meanswell's office, and offered a steaming cup of tea.  
'So, how do you like Lazytown?'  
'It's very pretty. And unique, as well.'  
'Yes, it has always been such a picturesque little place, ever since its inception. But I do wish Mr Rotten would show his presence in town more often. To truly flourish, a land must have the care of its proprietor!'  
  
'Mr Rotten!' I exclaimed. 'Who is he?'  
'The owner of Lazytown. Did you not know he was called that?'  
Of course I didn't, I had never heard of him before. But the old gentleman seemed to treat his existence as some universally understood fact.  
'I thought,' I continued, 'that Lazytown belonged to you.'  
'Oh! Bless you, child, what an idea! I am only a custodian - the manager. Mr Rotten's decisions regarding the township are delegated to me to enact. It is Mr Rotten's family who have been the landowners and patrons in this area, for many generations past. Mind you, us Meanswells are inextricably wound into the town's history. I am even distantly related to the Rottens myself, on my mother's side.'  
  
Mr Meanswell seemed eager to continue chattering on in this strain, so I asked: 'And the children?'  
'Oh! Yes, Mr Rotten's wards. Adorable little cherubs they are, but so troublesome. They have been getting underfoot ever since they arrived last Summer. Picking fights, demanding sweets, getting into accidents, all manner of bedlam. I am so glad you've come to give them some direction. On that note, perhaps we should make introductions?'

I was led into a narrow blue cubby-house, whose interior was cluttered with screens, computers, and electronic gadgets. On a worn-out old sofa before a large TV screen, five children were immersed in a noisy, frantic video game. Three little boys and two little girls, they varied greatly in height, colouring, and mannerisms.  
'Children!' Mr Meanswell cried, 'please turn that thing off for a moment!'  
There were a few groans of disappointment, but a calm, dark-skinned lad with carroty coiled hair complied, and paused the game. 'Sure, Uncle Milford,' he said.  
'Thank you, Pixel. I would like to introduce you all to Mr Sportacus: your new caretaker.'

The smallest child, a plump, freckled blond boy, arose and fixed me with his bright blue eyes.  
'Wow! Are you a superhero?'  
I laughed. 'Let's just say I'm a slightly-above-average hero.'  
With all the grandeur of a prince, a smartly dressed boy clutching a toy piggy-bank examined me from his seated position. 'Have you seen MY house, Mr Sportacus? It's the biggest one in Lazytown!'  
'Yeah!' quipped a bold Asian girl in pigtails, 'It needs to be big, so it can fit your big fat head!'  
'Now now, children,' Mr Meanswell tutted, 'let's not give our new friend the wrong impression.'

The energies of these youngsters seemed quite pent up. I felt the best thing for them would be exercise out in the fresh air.  
'Hey everyone, how about we go outside and play some football? It's a beautiful afternoon!'  
They looked to one another dubiously. Then, a pretty little girl with bright pink hair sprung up out of her seat. 'That sounds awesome, Mr Sportacus! Let's go, guys!'

Mr Meanswell gave me a look of relieved gratitude, as the children stampeded outside. 'I have a feeling that you will be just the thing for this town. I'll be in my office if you need me.'  
As I turned to exit, I felt a tug at my hand. I looked down to behold the little pink girl smiling up at me sweetly.  
'I think you're gonna be good for us too! My name is Stephanie.'  
'Nice to meet you, Stephanie. Ready for some football?'  
'You know it!'

***

I spent a happy few hours entertaining my new charges; the spirited game of football gave way to a lesson in dribbling and kicking a ball, which each of the children attempted with gusto, if not any modicum of skill.  
We later stood in a circle, leisurely throwing and catching the football between us. Dropping and fumbling tended to be the trend; it was clear that the motor skills of the group needed improvement.  
'We don't really play outside that much,' Stephanie told me.  
'Why not?'  
'Well... I wish we would play more often, but it's so hard to get everyone to agree. Pixel always wants to play video games, and Ziggy is always distracted by candy. Stingy won't share, and Trixie will either get bossy or just play pranks.'  
'What do you like to do?'  
'I love to dance. I can do that sometimes, but other times, Mr Rotten gets angry with me.'

I frowned. 'Is Mr Rotten unkind?'  
Stephanie's mouth skewed. 'I wouldn't say that. He can be really nice. Some days he will sing and dance with us, tell us stories, and bring us sweets. But can lose his temper really easily, and then he can disappear from town for ages and ages!'  
'Ah, he's just a party pooper,' Trixie, the pigtailed lass, remarked.  
'He's very busy, though,' replied Pixel, 'and he has a lot to think about.'  
'He owns a whole town, after all,' added Stingy, not a little envious.  
'But I love the chocolate he gives us!' declared Ziggy. 'I still have some left over from his last visit!' And with this, he pulled a wrapped confection from his pocket, tore it open, and stuffed it in his mouth.

Already, I had cause for concern. These children were spirited and mostly good-natured, and they were quickly gaining my affection. But the lack of a consistent parental influence had allowed them to fall into a very questionable lifestyle. I wondered at Mr Rotten's constant absences; what sort of man would adopt a brood of orphans, only to leave them so poorly attended? Mr Meanswell seemed almost afraid of the youngsters - while affable, he clearly lacked the strength of character required for this task.  
I resolved to give these children the care and guidance they were clearly missing.  
'Who's hungry? We can have a dinner of fresh vegetables!'

It quickly became apparent that the childrens' diet had not been exemplary, either: they looked upon the array of fresh produce I offered with suspicion. I led by example, enjoying my own serving of crisp spinach, tomato and carrot. Thankfully, the children followed suit, but begged me for dessert directly afterwards. The offerings of pears and apples I made were met with varying degrees of lukewarm acceptance.

Once they had each been tucked into bed, in their respective cubby-houses, Mr Meanswell approached me in front of the town hall.  
'How do you find them?'  
'I like them very much. I think they'll become more well-behaved, with time.'  
'I surely hope so. It was quite heartening to see how well they took to you!'  
  
We wandered along a lonely road behind the hall, and in the distance, a sight caught my eye that felt decidedly out of place in the cheerful little town: The moon rose upon a weathered old billboard, behind which peeked out a cluster of dun metallic structures. Some looked to be ventilation stacks, and I could barely guess at the purpose of some of the other objects.  
'What is that?' I indicated the bizarre structure to Mr Meanswell.  
He waved a dismissive hand. 'That's the entrance to Mr Rotten's workshop. No-one is to go in there without express permission. It's such a dreary old den, please pay it no mind.'  
I was directed back to the centre of town, and frankly, I was glad to turn away from the billboard's unsettling presence.

That night, as I settled down to bed in the airship, my mind combed through all the astounding information from my first day in Lazytown. I was grateful for Mr Meanswell's assistance, and each of the five children were uniquely endearing. I already felt myself beginning to love them all. In particular, young Stephanie had quickly won my favour, by encouraging the others to follow my example.  
  
In the dark, from its place in my breast pocket, Kristófer's crystal suddenly flashed with a bright light.  
My heart was struck with fear. The treasure had never done this before. I picked it up and stared at it, puzzling at its meaning.  
'Danger!' cried my instincts, 'someone is in trouble! They must be helped!'  
But when I looked through the airship's wide window-bays, down at the sleeping town, all was dormant and peaceful.  
While panic continued rolling through me, I could do nothing to abate it. Without a truly apparent emergency, what was I to do?

It took many uneasy hours for sleep to reclaim me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a nod to the original 'Phantom of the Opera' novel by Gaston Leroux in this chapter!

My early days in Lazytown were merry, diverting, and full of activity. As I had predicted, the children responded well to my consistent care - a routine of outdoor games and exertion saw their bodies grow stronger and their temperaments become less volatile. They even began accepting meals of healthy fresh produce without complaint. (To assist in this, I nick-named the foods as 'sports candy', and I was surprised at the positive effect this suggestion had.)  
I was told by Mr Meanswell to also conduct the childrens' schooling: I would spend some hours each day instructing them in reading and writing, which proved a fair challenge in a language that was not my native tongue. Sometimes, it was Stephanie who corrected my own grammar, and she would serve as an eager teacher's assistant for the finer points of English comprehension. Far from resenting her initiative, I was all too relieved for her help.  
  
It is true that caregivers should never play favourites, but Stephanie stood out as a child with a particularly sympathetic mindset. She was a natural leader among her peers, and truly took my words and deeds to heart. She offered to teach me her favourite dances, and in turn, we taught the other children. Privately, I imagined her as something of a surrogate baby sister, or even a daughter. Her place in my heart was very firmly established.

Soon, a full month had passed. In this time, I had seen and heard nothing of my employer, Mr Rotten. His prolonged absence only fuelled my curiosity. One evening, feeling bold, I once again approached the decrepit old billboard.  
This was tucked away in the most isolated corner of the little town; no-one ever really had reason to visit here. The grass was neglected, overgrown in some places and patchy in others. The picture that graced the billboard's front, a landscape mural of the countryside, was faded and peeling away with age.  
Fully feeling the wrongdoing of my venture, I carefully padded around to the back of the billboard, where the strange metallic structures sat.  
Upon a raised platform, directly behind the billboard's panel, I found an entrance hatch with a heavy door. This would no doubt be where Mr Rotten entered and exited his private workshop. While I knew better than to trespass, I approached this hatch, pondering the forbidden space that lay beneath it.

The silence was ruptured by low, growling, echoed laughter. It rang off the metallic surfaces surrounding me. I knew not where it had come from.

Like a spooked deer, I dashed back into town. Upon reaching the town hall, I nearly collided with Mr Meanswell.  
'Sportacus, is everything alright?'  
Spurred by guilt, I confessed to him what I had been doing, and told him of the unsettling laughter.

'Ah, pay no mind to that. It was mostly likely just The Persian.'  
'Who?'  
'That is what we call the fellow who assists Mr Rotten in his workshop. He is the only other Lazytowner permitted down there, and is charged with its care when Mr Rotten is absent. Funny chap, he is - bright clothes, shiny jewellry, and an aloof manner. But civil enough, I suppose. I will tell him to keep the noise down, the next time I see him come into town.'

My instincts tensed at the description of this person. I was reminded of my first night in Lazytown, when the crystal had flashed its impossible warning. The danger could well have been coming from the undergound, at the hands of this Persian character.  
I was all too glad to return to my airship in the skies, and divert myself with the comfort of excersise.

***

The following weekend, I was summoned to Mr Meanswell's office, to do him a small favour. He had ordered an assortment of seedlings from a nursery over in the next town, and required someone to collect them. (He suggested that I could show the children how to plant a vegetable garden, as his order included some packets of tomato, pumpkin, and celery seeds.)  
I assured him that I would collect the goods and return quickly. Likewise, he assured me that he would keep the children out of trouble. I forsook the airship, opting to make my way on foot.

The town was a few miles off, further down the lakeshore, and my journey took me longer than anticipated. All the same, the beautiful surroundings and the clean country air were welcome aspects of the trek. The seedlings were safely secured in my backpack, leaving me free to ramble as I pleased.  
By the time I was on the home stretch towards Lazytown, a sickle moon had begun to rise over the looming mountains. The afternoon shadows were long, and the air frosty. Apart from a few distant cows, I was the sole creature present upon this scene.

Just as I reached the crest of a hill, a great ferocious roar burst through the countryside, coming from behind me. I turned, attempting to discern the source of the noise.  
Soon, around a bend in the path, came a man riding a strangely retro-fitted bicycle. The thing had a motor attached, and was spewing exhaust in its wake. Its steering looked to be poor, as the rider was veering all over the path.  
This strange sight was so astounding, that I barely had enough time to duck out of the way as the thing rocketed towards me. I leapt aside at the last moment, unharmed, as the unfortunate man was sent flying into a nearby hedgerow.  
Immediately, I rushed over to give what help I could.

'Are you injured, sir?'  
'Damned elf!' he shouted.  
'I... beg your pardon?'

The man struggled his way to a seated position in the mud. One of his long legs was sprawled out at an uncomfortable angle, and his stern features were knit in rage. Jet black hair, that would have been previously coiffed in a pompadour, was now dishevelled, falling before his eyes and entwined with errant leaves and mud.  
'You, infernal trickster! Hovering on the path, casting some malevolent spell! Don't think I didn't see your mischief!'  
I hardly knew how to answer this accusation. I was much more concered about his potential injury.  
'Can you stand? I could fetch someone from back home, we are not far from Lazytown...'

This gave him pause - he stared at me curiously. 'Lazytown?' He repeated.  
'Yes, I could get Mr Meanswell, or-'  
'Just what is your business in Lazytown?'  
I was unsure why the stranger had taken this line of questioning - nonetheless, I obediently answered him. 'I am the caretaker for Mr Rotten's wards.'  
'Ah,' he barked, 'so you're the poor soul who must wrangle those brats. What do you think of Mr Rotten?'   
'I've never met him.'  
'Humph.'

I attempted to right the conversation. 'I really think I should fetch someone for you.'  
He looked over to where his bike lay, skidded across the path.  
'Neccesity compels me to make you useful. Come here.'  
I approached, and knelt down. He laid a large hand upon my shoulder, and leant upon me as he limped towards his bike. I picked it up for him and held it steady. Once he had mounted it, he gunned the motor with his good foot, and it sprang to life again.  
'Thank you,' came his final grumble, and he sped off ahead of me.  
I thought nothing more of it, and walked on.

I returned home at twilight. I had anticipated coming upon a township settling in for bedtime. What I encountered was pandemonium: my overstimulated charges were bounding about with squeals of excitement, the small band of shopkeepers were ferrying supplies towards the town hall, and Mr Meanswell stood upon its steps, hollering directions at his townspeople.  
Upon sighting me, he beckoned to me wildly.  
  
'Oh my, Sportacus, what a to-do! Mr Rotten has arrived home tonight, without any warning whatsoever! And to make matters worse, he's suffered a nasty fall! I've had to rally everyone to prepare his supper, dress his injury, and ensure that the town is spotless! I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid the children have been allowed to run loose. Oh, and he has asked to see you as soon as possible. He's sitting in my cottage presently.'

Leaning against one of the sunshine-yellow walls was the retro-fitted bicycle, still stained with mud.  
'Is that Mr Rotten's?' I asked.  
'Yes,' Mr Meanswell said absently, 'he crashed it on the way home, poor man. I simply must have it cleaned and polished!' And with this, he trotted off to inspect a tray of cupcakes being ferried along by the baker.

***

Mr Meanswell's cottage was a cozy wooden structure perched next to the town hall. It boasted an airy kitchen and a brick fireplace, and it was decorated in warm, earthy tones. It was before this fireplace, his foot elevated and swathed in bandages, that I found Mr Rotten.

He hunched moodily in Mr Meanswell's padded armchair, staring into the flames. Now in repose, his sharp features looked more pleasing: a strong chin, shapely mouth, and piercing eyes. He had fastidiously combed his dark hair back into its pompadour. Shyness overcame me unexpectedly, and I hesitated to approach him.  
'Tell me, elf, are you fond of presents?'

His abrupt question took me off guard. 'Uh... I don't know, sir. They are generally thought pleasant things.'  
'Well, if you are anything like those screeching little terrors out there, you would demand them from me like a vulture on a cadaver.'  
I shrugged. 'They have a much greater claim than I do for such a thing.'  
'Don't be modest,' he snarled. 'Old Milford couldn't shut up about your good influence. Apparently, you have made quite the mark on them already... teaching them games, honing their minds, and winning their loyalty. You have relieved me of a great burden in this accomplishment.'  
I couldn't help but smile. 'Sir, you have just given me my present. The thing that teachers most covet: praise of their pupils' progress.'

'Come sit,' he commanded. I obeyed, perching myself upon the sofa.  
'Do I truly have your magical trickery to thank for this?' He gestured curtly to his foot.  
'Not at all, I promise you.'  
'Hm. I suppose your kind can heal, just as much as they can hurt. Milford tells me you are an orphan?'  
I nodded.  
'You are unencumbered, then. Do not wish for the ties of family, elf, for they are cruelly suffocating.'  
I dared to respond. 'Sometimes, sir. But perhaps you simply haven't had a chance to experience the joy of-'

'ROBBIE!!!'  
'You're back!'  
'Did you bring more chocolate!?'  
'What happened to your foot??'  
The children had slammed open the front door, and now crowded around Mr Rotten, talking over one another without shame. For a man so disinclined towards family, his wards appeared to be dearly fond of him.

'QUIET, BRATS!' He exclaimed. 'What are you about, elf? It is far past their bedtime! Get them out of my sight at once!'  
A collective groan rose from the children, as well as a few subdued good-nights to their guardian. I did as Mr Rotten bid, and tucked them in to sleep, one by one.

By this time, things had settled down outside. Mr Meanswell met with me again.  
'I do hope Mr Rotten's manner did not put you off. I know he can be a bit much, but I am so used to him, I rarely think of it.'  
'He is a little moody,' I admitted.  
'Unfortunately so. He is a very troubled man, made to bear the burdens of his family legacy. I suspect that is why he shuns the town so-'

We were interrupted by the arrival of a portly man in a bright, multi-coloured suit, with large gold earrings and kohl-lined eyes. 'Milford. Where do you want the ice-cream stored?' His manner was cool and pompous.  
'Just put it in my fridge for now, please. Mr Rotten will be unable to access the underground ladder in his current state. I will let him take my bedroom, if he so wishes.'  
The Persian nodded, and gave me an unsmiling stare.  
'Oh, and,' Mr Meanswell added, 'too much noise.'  
He nodded once more, and took off into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear: Rottenella (Ella Rotten?) is very much a fully grown adult woman in this AU.

Mr Rotten remained within the cottage for quite some time, as his injury healed. In the mornings, while I was playing outside with the children, Mr Meanswell would often gently request that we keep the noise down. My charges would look sombre, keen to obey, at least for a few minutes. Inevitably the command would be forgotten as their playing ramped up again, and they would require further reminders.

On one sunny day, a game of football grew decidedly lively. With an impressive kick from Trixie, the ball flew off into Mr Meanswell's window-box. It bounced against the cottage windowpane and crushed a few unlucky petunias.  
The front door to the cottage flew open, to reveal a groggy, irate Mr Rotten, leaning on a walking stick. He still bore the bandages to his foot, under the rolled-up leg of his pyjamas.  
'I though I told you to keep those little hellions under control, elf!'  
'I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again.'  
The door slammed shut.  
The children were clearly rattled by the reproval, staring after their guardian sadly. Instead of scolding them further, I managed to distract them with a game of hide and seek.

***

It was the following afternoon when I was summoned to see Mr Rotten again. Mr Meanswell collected me from a dance lesson with Stephanie (to a delightful little routine she called 'Bing Bang'), and I was directed to sit upon the sofa again. The day was warm, but the hearth was alight. My employer remained swaddled in his dressing gown, still staring into the flames.  
  
'Speak,' he urged.  
'I beg your pardon, sir... what would you like me to speak about?'  
'I am disposed to be gregarious today,' he responded, his grim expression unchanged, 'and I should like to be entertained. I leave the choice of the subject to you.'  
I strained to think of a topic to please him - the only ones that came to me were the children, their games, and the town. In my silence, my gaze remained on Mr Rotten.

'You examine me, elf. Do you think me handsome?'  
'No!'  
I felt the heat of the fireplace glow on my face. He laughed here: a rough, spiteful sound.  
'I am sorry, sir, I spoke too plainly. I should have said that beauty is in the eye of-'  
'You should say no such thing. You have a peculiar air about you - clearly, you have been moulded for politeness and service, to always mind your manners. But your natural honesty is too strong to be snuffed out. Your heart is clear on your sleeve. I see it whenever you are cavorting about with those brats of mine.' Here he gestured out of the cottage window, to the sight of the children dancing together in the adjacent park.

Now, it was my turn to laugh, albeit quietly.  
'What's so funny?'  
'When I was a boy, several grown-ups said that I was dishonest.'  
He grimaced. 'Many people see only what they want to see. They delude themselves into prejudice, sometimes even to the point of madness. Usually because they are terrified of the truth, or that they will be forced to confront how dishonest they are themselves.'  
He paused here, and plucked a small chocolate cupcake from a platter on the side table. I watched as he savoured a large bite of the delicate treat.  
'Then again,' he said with a grin, 'perhaps there is a side to you I haven't yet seen. You could be trickier than I thought.'  
I returned his grin. 'Perhaps, sir.'

We sat together amicably for a little while longer. Given his relatively good mood, I chose to ask a question that had been puzzling me for a while.  
'Sir... please don't think I am rude, but I must ask: why did you decide to adopt the children? It was a generous act, but you don't seem overly fond of them.'  
He looked at me sharply. 'Perhaps that is a conversation for another time.'  
Then, he rose from the chair, took the platter of cupcakes, and hobbled to the front door with his walking stick.  
'I think the rest of these cakes will make a fine snack for my wards!'

I followed close behind.  
'Please sir, I had already planned on giving them some celery sticks for afternoon tea. I do not want to spoil their dinner.'  
This protest proved useless - Mr Rotten had already approached the children with the sweets, and they huddled around him as he gleefully handed them out.  
'Thank you, Mr Rotten!'  
'Yummy!'  
'You're the best, Robbie!'  
'Will you tell us the pirate story again? Huh huh huh?'

This last question had come from Ziggy, who looked up at Mr Rotten with unguarded admiration. This proved an instant catalyst for the man's ego, as he beamed back down at the children with surprising goodwill. He put the now empty platter aside, perched himself gingerly upon a bench, and lifted the little blond boy up into his lap.  
'Gather around, little buccaneers, and I'll tell ye the tale of Rottenbeard the Lazy. But first, who remembers the Pirate Song?'  
The group burst into a hearty sing-along, and I listened in eagerly.

***

Stephanie proved a diligent little dance teacher. Once she had helped me to master the steps to the 'Bing Bang' dance, she resolved that we would share this with the others.  
Her bubblegum pink boom-box (a gift from Mr Rotten, I learned) sat atop one of the stucco walls, blasting out upbeat pop songs. She demonstrated each step of the dance to her peers, recruiting myself as an assistant dance captain. The children copied us with varying degrees of proficiency. But even the clumsiest of the group were enthusiastic, launching into each dance step with gusto. A happy time we passed, flinging our bodies about to the buoyant dance music.  
  
At some stage, Mr Rotten had emerged from the cottage and shuffled up to watch us. At a break between songs, we heard his demure applause.  
'Do you like that dance, Robbie?' the girl asked.  
'Most... energetic, Pinky.'  
'Maybe we can teach it to you.'  
'Perhaps. Sportacus, come walk with me.'

He stood up, and his leg was evidently healed, as he swanned off towards the town hall. I followed his lead.  
'You asked me to explain my reason for adopting those rascals,' he said, once we were out of their earshot. 'Come inside.'  
He drew me into Mr Meanswell's office. Upon one wainscotted wall sat a great array of pictures: some recent shots of the townspeople, some age-old sepia photos from decades past. As I examined each of the nameless faces, Mr Rotten leaned upon Mr Meanswell's desk.

'No doubt Milford has told you about my bloodline. The Rottens have owned this land for centuries. My father's estate fell to his son, upon his death. And now I am burdened with looking after this town, and its strange little clump of citizens.'  
He stared out the window, at the endless blue sky. 'I often wonder what I could have done, where I could have gone, were it not for this damned obligation.'  
'Why not give it up? I'm sure Mr Meanswell would be willing to take it over.'  
He shook his head. 'The legal complications of my inheritance prevent any such action. There is nothing to be done, but bear up, and wear this blasted town around my neck.'  
His voice was heavy, and I ached for him. He caught my eye and quickly brightened.

'But you wanted to learn of the children.' He drew me over to a newer photograph, featuring a graceful young woman, a ballerina in a deep purple tutu. Her black hair, fair complexion, and fierce, sharp eyes were strikingly familiar.  
'That is my younger sister Ella. Beautiful, isn't she? The baby of the family. On her eighth birthday, she joined the Paris Opera Ballet School, nevermore to look upon Lazytown. I took her over to Paris myself, and cried like a baby when I left her at the school's front steps. It was my delight to visit her once every three months, bringing gifts from home and letters from our mother.'  
'The years passed, and she eventually became a prima ballerina - she danced Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, the Lilac Fairy. I made sure to be front row centre at every gala premiere. No brother could be prouder.'  
  
I cast my eyes over adjacent photos. Indeed, a younger Mr Rotten posed with his little sister, beaming, as the dainty dancer clutched massive bouquets of roses, dressed in splendid costumes.  
'But alas, she was a Rotten through and through. A diva in every sense of the word. She would burn through her considerable paychecks, and then demand money from me to clear her debts. What could I do? I would rather die than see her destitute. She would leave strings of irate dance teachers, ruined hotel suites, and jilted lovers in her wake. Then, about a year ago, she sent me a letter.'

Mr Rotten produced a leaf of perfumed paper, upon which was written:

'Darling Robbie,

I must beg for your help again, brother, regarding a transgression which I pray you can forgive. It involves a chapter of my life here in Paris that happened some years ago, one that I never felt comfortable sharing with you.

You no doubt recall the Vicomte de la Rose? Of course you do, I will never forget the thrashing you gave him when you discovered us together at the Hôtel Vernet. You took me for an innocent, then, a helpless maiden who had been lured in by a depraved Lothario. Nothing could have been further from the truth. It was I who had first seduced him - and by that time, the Vicomte and I had been carrying on an _affaire de cœur_ for many months, behind his poor wife's back.

Please do not be angry with me. You must understand the strength of the temptation: his well-muscled limbs, his winsome smile, his unashamed masculine verve. You must be sympathetic with me, brother, you have surely been moved by similar such beauty. After all, I have further iniquities to confess.

Soon after the affair, I discovered that I was with child. I dared not confess to anyone - not even you, dear heart. I could not bear to hear your scolding. I gave birth in secret, and sent the child away to an orphanage in America.  
You think me heartless right now, I am sure. Let me disabuse you. I did indeed feel a pang to leave my daughter. But I knew that I could not be any sort of decent mother to her. I had my career to think of, as well as a future teaching at the Paris Opera. I am our mother's own daughter: a woman of selfish and volatile temperament. What sort of influence would that be for the poor child? I am convinced that I made the right decision, leaving her in the care of those better suited to child-rearing.

I now come to the point. My debtors once again hound me. I ask not for your help with this, as I am aiming to secure a marriage with a venerable Russian oil baron. However, I have thought things over, and believe that my daughter should be brought into the care of her family.

Perhaps this is something I should have asked of you from the very beginning. But alas, I could never summon the courage before now. I can only imagine the privations that the poor girl has suffered under the care of the orphanage. I believe coming to live in Lazytown, under the good watchful eye of her uncle, will be the best thing for her.

I know you will have your misgivings, and I do not blame you. It is a huge responsibility, and certain arrangements will have to be put in place to ensure her safety in the town. But I have every confidence in your capability. Think of the child, and the love she could bring into your lonely life.

Please, sweet brother, grant me this considerable favour, and I shall be forever grateful. 

With love, your Ella.'

I looked up from the page, into Mr Rotten's eyes.  
'Stephanie is no orphan,' he said, 'at least not in the usual sense. But her mother will have nothing to do with her. Upon making arrangements to move her here, I receieved a phone call from Ella. She made me promise not to tell my niece of her own mother's existence.'  
'What about the other children?'  
'They were fellow orphans from the institution. As there were no other children here in town, I resolved to adopt some playmates for the girl, to keep her entertained. Clearly, I was in over my head, hence the need for your own good self.'

I turned to examine the photo of Ella again. Proud, perfect, a pure white swan.  
'She can say such pretty words,' Mr Rotten declared. 'Words of affection, regret, and sweet-sounding promises. But she is a Rotten trickster with a hollow heart. You've never known what it is to love someone in vain, have you, elf? Frankly, I do believe it is best for Stephanie not to know her, and not to experience the same miserable disappointments as I have.'

I crossed to the window, and watched the little pink ballerina lead her troupe of juvenile dancers. She did look happy, but I couldn't help but feel sad on her behalf.  
'And,' continued my master, 'perhaps now that you have discovered she is a bastard of Rotten blood, you will be less inclined to love her?'  
I turned to face him. 'On the contrary, I will love the child all the more! She should not be held accountable for her family's sins!'

For a long moment, Mr Rotten examined me, with a curious, ineffable light in his eyes.  
'So be it. Love her well, then, and the other children. Now please excuse me. With my injury healed, I have much business to attend to in my workshop.'

He left the town hall, and set off in the direction of the billboard.


	7. Chapter 7

Sleep eluded me that night. I lay wide awake in my airship, as all that Mr Rotten had revealed slowly sunk into my mind. I recognised that Stephanie had bore a similar fate to mine - her mother had abandoned her in infancy, just as my father had done to me, and the unfairness of this pricked me deeply. Ella Rotten had at least expressed some regret at not bringing her daughter to Lazytown earlier, and I had to wonder why the woman had been so hesitant. Mr Rotten's temper might flare hot, but I had discovered him to be all bark and no bite. In a kinder world, Stephanie would have been put into the care of her uncle while she was still in the cradle.

As for Mr Rotten himself, the layers of his character were being further revealed to me, and the reasoning behind the strange life he lived explained, at least in part. His grumpiness was a smokescreen for the warm generosity he reserved for a lucky few. And his anger, I fancied, was the lingering resentment of some age-old hurt. The more I knew of him, the more curious I grew. And I confess, the more and more I liked him.

It was close to four in the morning, when the crystal flashed another warning. The same panic flooded my body as the last time, the same instinct that disaster was looming.  
I leapt out of bed and stared down at the sleeping town. Dark, silent, untroubled. There was but one place that remained hidden from my sight.  
I lowered myself to the earth, and sprinted off to the old billboard.

The hatch door behind it was heavy, but unlocked. Disregarding the rule that Mr Meanswell had impressed on me, I hauled it open and climbed down a metal ladder, into the subterranean darkness.  
The first thing that grabbed my notice was acrid plumes of smoke. My crystal had proven true, leading me to the source of the danger.

I jumped down from the last rung of the ladder, landing upon an elevated grille catwalk. I found myself inside a massive underground chamber with a high ceiling. Other walkways crossed the space, as well as a dozen little alcoves, doorways, chutes, and corridors.  
Down below, the workshop itself was on fire. Flames curled about several workspaces and benchtops; I feared that they may get into the wiring of the place. In the centre of the space was a fluffy orange recliner, upon which lay a sleeping Mr Rotten.  
From within the smoky haze of the inferno, I heard a low, guttural, cruel laugh. A far door then slammed shut.  
  
'Sir! Sir, wake up! The place is on fire!'  
When Mr Rotten did not stir, I took a half-empty cup of flat soda from his side table, splashing him in the face. He shot up, spluttered, and got his bearings. 'Gods!!'  
I had already begun to smother the flames, making use of a heavy orange duvet. Mr Rotten rushed to a work space and retrieved a fire extinguisher, joining my effort.  
  
Between the two of us, the fires were put out within the space of a minute. Smoke continued to curl around us.  
'Sir, I am sorry for trespassing. But my crystal - my elf-crystal - it flashed, and since no-one else in town was-'  
'It's alright, elf.' He directed me to sit on his recliner, clutching me by the shoulders. His tone was flat and hard. 'Did you see anything when you entered?'  
'I heard a laugh. I think it was The Persian. Perhaps he-'  
'Stay here.' Mr Rotten's firm command stifled any further protests. 'Don't move. I will be back soon.'

He left me then, crossing the floor and entering a darkened hallway on the other side of the room. A door slammed shut, and locked, and I was left alone in the dark chamber for close to half an hour. Fear for both Mr Rotten and myself crept upon me, and I shrank into the soft armchair. I was helpless, and I hated it.

Upon his return, my heart flooded with relief. I leapt from the chair and ran to him.  
'Sir-'  
'Just remind me,' he said, 'of exactly what you saw and heard? Be specific.'  
I took a breath. 'Well there were several fires burning, as you know, I couldn't really see anything because of the flames and smoke. But the laugh was low, and rough. And then I heard a door slam shut.'  
I watched him process this, frowning.  
'Sir, please listen to me. The Persian could have killed you-'

Mr Rotten patted me on the shoulder. 'The Persian, yes. I found the old boy in his quarters quite drunk - completely wasted, in fact. I keep my favourite liqueurs in a cabinet down here, safe from the prying hands of children. He and I both have a predilection for butterscotch schnapps. The Persian also smokes a pipe, don't you know. It turns out that the damned fool attempted to light the thing, and in his inebriated state, dropped the lit shag onto one of my machines!' He laughed harshly. 'But the great brute will pay for his mistake tomorrow with a beastly hangover! I am just thankful he didn't accidentally set fire to anything explosive.'

I tried to be content with this explanation, but something in my gut did not sit right. 'But...'  
'Look,' Mr Rotten insisted, 'it was a simple accident, a lapse in judgement from a usually trustworthy employee of mine. And I will take measures to ensure that it doesn't happen again. You must be satisifed with this.'  
I sighed, and nodded slowly, with a disquiet still pulsing in my mind. 'Alright. Good night, sir.'  
I turned to leave, but Mr Rotten clasped my hand in his long, warm fingers.

'You are leaving me already? You have saved my life, Sportacus.'  
I faced him, then, beholding an open softness in his face. 'I have the pleasure of owing you an immense debt,' he said.  
'There is no debt. I am just glad my crystal brought me to you.' 

He smiled at me. 'They talk of natural sympathies. I knew you would do me good in some way, the first time I saw you. Goodnight, my cherished preserver!'  
'Goodnight, Mr Rotten.'

I returned to the airship, and sleep was an even more distant prospect than before. The ebbing adrenalin from the night's misadventure, the railing of my instincts against The Persian and his malevolent laughter, and most astounding of all: the warmth of Mr Rotten's hand, and the tenderness that glowed in his piercing pale eyes.  
The man, and his undisclosed troubles, haunted me until sunrise.

***

Once I had seen to the children, making sure they were fed and breakfasted, I flew back to the underground workshop. Given my visit last night, I was hopeful that Mr Rotten would not mind a second intrusion. Every impulse within me insisted that I had to see him, had to ensure that he was safe.

'Good morning, Mr Sportacus. If you're looking for Mr Rotten, I'm afraid he left the workshop over an hour ago.'  
I was met by the sight of The Persian, cleaning up the burned refuse and the fine white powder from the fire extingusher. The strange man looked neither hungover, nor remorseful.  
'What has happened here, sir?' I felt my heart pounding in my chest.

The Persian did not look up at me. 'Oh, I am afraid it was quite a mishap. Late last night, Mr Rotten was working on one of his inventions, and carelessly dropped a strip of fabric upon his bunsen burner. Thankfully, the fire was put out before it grew uncontrollable.'

He tossed a charred wooden drill press onto a pile of similarly damaged objects. I did not move from my spot. 'Are you sure that's how the fire was started?'  
The Persian shrugged. 'I'm just telling you what happened. But perhaps you saw something else, Mr Sportacus?' He now glanced my way stiffly.  
'It was what I heard,' I insisted. 'It was a laugh. One that I have heard come from this place before.'  
The cad looked away again, and sighed. 'You'd best stay away from the billboard. And mind that the children stay away, too. Mr Rotten made this place out of bounds with good reason.'

This threat froze my insides. I sped away from the dank lair, out into the sunlight, now desperate to be away from the menace I had just confronted.

I sought out the friendly face of Mr Meanswell. He was in his cottage kitchen, perusing colourful cookbooks over a cup of tea. The children were gathered on his sofa, absorbed in video games and picture books.  
'Good morning,' I hailed the man. 'Have you seen Mr Rotten today?'

'Oh my, no. He left town again, quite early this morning. He told me of his intention to plan a grand party for Lazytown. He's off visiting some old family friends, with the intention of inviting them.'  
This was surprising. Mr Rotten was many things, but sociable was not one of them.  
'Friends?' I queried.  
'Well, yes. Given his parents' status as wealthy landowners, they cavorted with quite the high society set. I remember the elegant soirees they used to host here, back in their day. Live music, fancy foods, and such aristocratic guests! I believe that Mr Rotten will be seeking the attendance of all the finest families. The Highbrows, the Schmoozes, and of course, the Busybodys.' A light blush warmed Mr Meanswell's cheek. 'It is my hope that those delightful Busybody sisters will visit!'

I pulled up a chair, and Mr Meanswell offered me a cup of tea.  
'Stina and Bessie are society ladies of the highest, grandest set. The elder, Stina, is the matriarch. But oh, her younger sister Bessie is the great beauty of the _beau monde!_ Sweet, womanly features, lusciously voluptuous, and always impeccably dressed. In recent seasons, she and Mr Rotten have been seen simply everywhere together. They attended last year's premiere of "Boléro" at the Paris Opera, and were the stars of the gala after-party. I was told that Ms Busybody played piano to Mr Rotten's exquisite rendition of "La Vie En Rose". Perhaps they shall perform for us here in Lazytown!'

I stared into the cloudy depths of my tea. 'So she is a great friend to Mr Rotten.'  
Mr Meanswell smiled wanly. 'Thick as thieves. Last New Year's, I was kindly invited to a costumed gala at the Highbrow family's alpine chalet. Mr Rotten and Ms Busybody came dressed to the nines as Siegfried and Brunhilde. I saw them huddled together all night over glasses of wine, making the most witty observations about the party guests, and laughing like carefree gods. Never was there such an exquisite pair! People say that they should marry, if only for the handsome children they would no doubt bear.'

Mr Meanswell returned his attention to the pile of cookbooks before him. 'I'm currently looking for menu ideas for our own party. It must be something chic and on-trend. I'm afraid Mr Rotten's society acquaintances are far too fashionable to settle for plain old sports candy. Perhaps you could help me?'  
I shook my head. 'I don't think I'm any good with fancy food.'

***

I went through my paces that day, teaching the children and supervising their outdoor play. All the while, I felt a lead weight in my chest and a burning frustration, aimed squarely at my own foolish self. I still sorely wished for Mr Rotten's return, but I chided myself fiercely for daring to believe that he might ever think of me likewise.

At last, after the children were tucked in, I asked leave to enter Mr Meanswell's office again. After the exhilirating discoveries of the last few days, I needed some grounding, and I was certain that I would find the means to admonish myself in here.  
  
I scanned the wall of photos carefully, until my eyes landed on a colourful picture of Mr Rotten. He stood on the steps of a grand opera house, resplendent in a wine-coloured blazer and jet black cravat. His arm was wound around a buxom, immaculate socialite in a dazzling red gown. Her hair was piled high on her head in perfect curls, and she was adorned with diamond jewellery. This flawless creature had to be Ms Bessie Busybody, the loveliest companion of Mr Rotten, the special woman who he easily laughed and sang with.

'Memorise this image, Sportacus,' I told myself. 'Permanently sear it into your mind. Then, whenever you fancy that Mr Rotten thinks well of you, you may summon the picture of this grand queen, and tell yourself: he surely loves her, and would never direct his affections towards a dull, disconnected, childish elf.'


	8. Chapter 8

Over the course of the next week, the face of Lazytown slowly began to change. The townspeople were made to accept an increasingly elaborate series of deliveries: bunting, fairy lights, potted topiaries. Mr Meanswell, feeling in over his head regarding the food, admitted defeat and contacted a catering company. One afternoon, he walked the head caterer around the town square, and they strategised about the presentation of the refreshments.  
As the weekend drew nearer, the common areas of the town took shape. The childrens' favoured park was taken over. It was transformed into a sort of formal garden, dotted with tea tables and white iron lawn chairs, and even a small fountain. Any unoccupied bedroom was prepared for the party guests who would require overnight accomodation; new bedding and luxurious gift bags were delivered to each house's doorstep. Likewise, the energy of the townspeople took an upswing, and all conversaton in the town centred on the celebration - including the stylish guests who would be attending.

As for myself, I was instructed to keep the children out of the way. This proved a challenge,for the hive of activity was an endless source of fascination for them. Often I would find Stingy gawping at the handsome decorations, running a hand through the fountain, or trailing around after the busy tradespeople at work.  
'Come on, Stingy, let's leave these nice people alone so they can get on with their job.'  
'But it's MINE!'  
I would then have to gently release a grasping little hand from the ornaments.

Saturday morning saw the finishing touches placed down, and the catering waitstaff arrived as a perfect, sharply dressed regiment. Mr Meanswell's kitchen was commandeered as their base of operations. The children, particularly Ziggy, were tantalised by the great piles of finger food that were prepared or delivered there, and they turned their noses up at my offerings of sports candy.

Shortly before noon, Stephanie rushed off to change her clothes. When she emerged, my heart sank at the sight of her in a sparkly, frilly party dress.  
'I can't wait to meet all of Robbie's fancy friends!'  
'Stephanie... this isn't a party for children.'  
'But I want to see Robbie!'  
'If Mr Rotten wants to see you, he will ask for you.'  
  
Against every principle I had, I corralled my charges into Pixel's room, permitting them to play video games for the remainder of the day. I sat by the window, restless, as I observed the gathering in the centre of town.  
The first guests began arriving around three p.m. They were sleek and unimpressed, eyeing the decorations and the black-suited string quartet with little interest. They stood out in stark contrast to the small group of adult Lazytowners attending; the latter were far more cheerful and excited by the festivities surrounding them.

It was almost sunset before the truly distinguished guests appeared. Luxury cars pulled into town, from which poured a stream of glitterati. One pair took my interest in particular: an older woman clad in a fur-lined frock coat, who looked about the place with a dismissive sneer. This was no doubt the Stina Busybody that Mr Meanswell had mentioned. And, her companion, the incomparable Bessie Busybody, dressed in a glossy gown of pink satin.

'How desperately provincial,' I heard Stina say.  
'Oh Stina, really. Robbie has been so kind to put this little shindig together for us. After all, it's quite hard to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.'  
'You are quite right, my dear.'   
I then saw Mr Meanswell trot up to the pair, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his ill-fitting tux. 'Misses Busybody. What an utter delight to see you again.' He kissed Bessie's hand.  
'Oh Milford, darling. The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure.'

At last, the host of the evening emerged. He stepped down from the front doors of the town hall, utterly striking in his sleek black formal wear.  
I had spent the better part of a week preparing myself for this moment, when I would see Mr Rotten again. I had been proud of my efforts, to push down every imprudent feeling inside me. I was determined to remain composed and detatched, to remind myself he was nothing more than my employer.  
Now, I could not keep my eyes from him, as he glided through the throng of his adoring guests. All my self-discipline fell to pieces, and I could do nothing but watch him in pathetic admiration. I had not intended to love him - and still, he stirred my devotion, without even looking my way.

'Oh Robbie darling,' Bessie clutched at his sleeve, 'have you _seen_ the ghastly peacock ensemble that Suzanne Schmooze has squeezed herself into tonight?'  
Mr Rotten smirked. 'Someone ought to send her a memo that cerulean is not the new black. But at least she sets off her wife's day-glo yellow rouched number.'  
'Honestly, between them, they look like the IKEA logo.'  
'It's flat-pack couture, honey. Perhaps they could enter Eurovision!'  
The two of them laughed breezily. Mr Meanswell joined in with a stilted little chuckle.  
'You remember Milford, of course?'  
'Oh yes, the dear man has already kindly welcomed us to your quaint little village. I take it you have overseen the festivities for tonight, Milford?'  
The man nodded dumbly.  
'That explains why you clearly didn't have the time to dress for the occasion,' Stina remarked, sipping from her wine glass pointedly.

During this exchange, the children had joined me at the window, just as absorbed in people-watching as myself. The string quartet now finished their set, and during their intermission, pre-recorded music was piped over speakers in the town square.  
'How gauche,' Stina drawled. 'My last garden party featured both a string quartet and a live big band.'  
'I also recall the ice sculpture carved in your likeness,' said Mr Rotten. 'I've never seen an artwork capture the soul of its subject so well.'

Upbeat jazz music now filled the air. Stephanie tore out of Pixel's room, and danced merrily about in front of the bemused party guests. Bessie eyed her.  
'Goodness! Robbie, what is this little creature?'  
'That is one of my wards. A new addition to the town.'  
'Hello! My name is Stephanie!'

Stingy followed close behind, and then came the other children. They began clomping about to the music, plundering the platters of food, and interrogating the party guests. I rushed out after them, embarrassed, and tried to herd them back.  
'I'm sorry,' I told Mr Rotten.  
'Not at all, Sportacus. Perhaps we should just let them enjoy the party. Their antics may help to liven things up.' He turned to Bessie. 'This is one of my new employees. He's been a godsend in helping to rein in my darling brats.'  
Bessie nodded at me coolly. 'Hello.'  
Stina frowned. 'But surely they must be such a hassle! You should send them all to a boarding school.'  
Mr Rotten shook his head. 'Too expensive. Sportacus takes good care of them.'  
'Oh, but isn't keeping extra help around expensive, too?' Bessie asked. 'No offense, dear,' she added, glancing my way.  
'Don't get me started on servants,' Stina muttered, 'my housekeeper has broken three pieces of fine glassware in the past month!'  
The group turned their backs to me, and I used that moment to slip away.

I escaped to the one place in town that I knew would be deserted. I climbed upon the platform behind the old billboard, staring up at the fading sky, weighed down by humiliation.  
Some minutes later, I heard footfalls approach me.  
'Elf, why did you leave the party so soon?' asked Mr Rotten. 'Do the children not require their caretaker?'  
'They are well supervised tonight,' I replied flatly.  
'Is eveything alright?'  
'...I'm tired, sir.'  
'And a little depressed. What about?'  
'I am fine.'

Mr Rotten huffed. 'Well then. If you are fine, then you should be able to return to the gathering. I require you there, as I must go and prepare one of the surprises I have in store for tonight. Take a moment to collect yourself, and then come back and watch the children as you're supposed to. I talked you up in front of the Busybody sisters, didn't I? I don't want those fine ladies to think that I hired a dud.'  
He strode off. I did as he asked, corralling my self-discipline. At length I reluctantly dragged myself back into the throng.

***

The party was now in full swing - and in the town square, there was a minor commotion. The guests swarmed excitedly around a fashionably late couple. Through the press of onlookers, I managed to spy a sober, blonde man in a designer suit, and a slender, pretty brunette whom I quickly recognised as Ella Rotten.  
She clung onto her partner's arm, and seemed to not have time for the warm greetings she was given.  
  
'Where is Robbie, Milford?' She demanded, in an all-too-familiar petulant tone.  
'I'm so sorry, Miss Ella, he's just popped off to attend to some last minute matter. I'll fetch him for you as soon as I can. In the meantime, why don't you and your charming fiance enjoy our party?'  
She huffed, and sat down upon a lawn chair, dragging her fiance with her. A passing waiter furnished them with glasses of wine.

'Sportacus, isn't she beautiful?' Stephanie had suddenly jumped out at me from behind a stucco wall.  
'Who?'  
'That lady in the purple dress.' She pointed straight at Ella with a tiny finger.

The woman's quicksilver eyes darted our way for one long, stark moment. As soon as she registered the presence of Stephanie, she looked away just as quickly. Forgetting my own troubles, I held tight to the outrage and pity that now flared in me - the former against the negligent mother, and the latter for the forsaken daughter. She stood by my side, innocently fussing and chattering away, none the wiser. I had no doubt that Ella knew exactly who she was. Instinctively, I lay a protective arm around the little girl. 

Mr Meanswell clinked a spoon against his wine glass. 'Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen! I am delighted to announce some further entertainment for this evening. We have been graced with a visit from Madame Romalda: clairvoyant extraordinaire! She tells me that there are several bright young singles amongst the crowd tonight, who are dreaming of love. She requests that you make yourselves known, so that she can foretell your future!'

'I'll go,' Bessie said, passing her empty wine glass to Mr Meanswell.  
'Ah, splendid, Ms Busybody. Madame Romalda awaits you in a tent just behind the town hall.'  
A number of guests cheered the woman on as she strode off to have her fortunes revealed. I firmly disbelieved that it was within the scope of human power to do such a thing, so I quickly turned my attention on herding the children. (I found Ziggy doubled over by the banquet table, suffering the effects of overindulgence. I also managed to stop Trixie before she flung her slingshot at a prim, elderly gentleman wearing a fez.)

About ten minutes later, Bessie emerged, rankling with ill humour.  
'Nasty old hag,' she grumbled.  
'Oh, my dear,' Stina said, 'was Madame Romalda's prediction not to your liking?'  
The younger sister grabbed another glass of wine, and downed it in two large gulps.

One by one, all the young (and not-so-young) unattached party guests had their session with the fortune teller, and their reactions ran a varied gamut. Some subjects were evidently destined for a great providence, while others were to be tragically star-crossed. These predictions had gradually become the dominant topic of conversation for the guests. Bessie, however, remained staunchly silent about what fortune had been revealed to her.  
  
'Ah,' Mr Meanswell cried, calling for our attention again. 'It appears that there is one more person that Madame Romalda must see tonight. She has asked me to summon the strong young fellow with the smart moustache, dressed in blue.  
For the first time that evening, all eyes turned to me.  
'But he's the help!' spat Stina.  
I shook my head. 'I have no need to have my future told,' I said to Mr Meanswell.  
'But she insists! She said she has some very important news for you.'  
  
The weight of the partygoers' stares made the decision for me: I uneasily passed through the crowd, not at all excited to be indulging the fancies of this charlatan.

***

The tent was dim and smoky with incense; the revels of the partygoers heavily muffled. I sat before the fortune teller in her gaudy silks, and she flashed a gold-toothed grin at me over her crystal ball.  
'You doubt my second sight,' she announced.  
'You might have reckoned that from the look on my face,' I retorted.  
'Quite right, lad - much can be discovered from searching a subject's face. Those eyes of yours are clear and unafraid: you're quite a principled little elf. Ah! Yes it's true, I recognise your kind... like me, you have a magic crystal that lights your path, yes?'  
'I thought you were supposed to tell my future, not describe my species.'

Her bejewelled hands began dancing around the crystal ball.  
'We come to the point. My crystal gives a fractured, conflicting image of your possible fate. The outcome rests in resolving the conflict within you. Tell me, young man - what is it that you truly desire?'  
'To continue to be of service,' I insisted.  
'Pah!' the fortune teller scoffed, 'an insipid platitude! Is there no lovely face amongst the crowd that has pleased you tonight?'  
'All faces are pleasing, in one way or another.'  
'But not all faces can spark attachment, or longing. The crystal tells me that you are smote by some unnamed idol.'  
'You may assume the same thing about any young person. Infatuation is common enough.'

She snickered. 'Your obfuscation reveals much: you stand at the edge of a great passion, yet hesitate to possess it. Yours is a faithful heart, not designed to love by half-measures, and yet you hide behind your own self-made obscurity! Well, if you insist on such artifice - fine. The play is played out.'

Before I could puzzle at the meaning of these words, my vision was befuddled by a truly cunning trick: the fortune teller cast off the printed scarf from her head, and her long wispy hair with it - a wig, evidently. Along with this, her voice, her bearing, and her very face were transformed.  
'Mr Rotten!' I cried.  
He chuckled at me. 'This charade was awfully diverting. Perhaps even more fun for myself than for my guests, wouldn't you say?'  
'It was unkind of you to betray your guests' trust like this, sir!'  
'I can see I have upset your excellent principles, then - I promise, I won't pull any other naughty tricks, if that pleases you. I will play the perfect host for the rest of the night.'

Despite his sarcasm, I was softened. 'As you please, sir. Oh, by the way: while you were occupied, your sister Ella and her fiance arrived. Don't worry - as much as I wished to, I didn't tell Stephanie who she was.'

But Mr Rotten was far from placated. A cold terror had crossed his face, he remained still in his seat, staring blankly down into the fake crystal ball. After a worrying spell of silence:  
'What is it, sir?'  
'Sportacus... you offered me your shoulder once before. Let me have it now.'  
I knelt down before him, and allowed him to lean upon me heavily. I suspected that this shock had little to do with Stephanie's parentage.  
'My little friend! I wish I were on some quiet, distant island with only you; and that trouble, and danger, and hideous liabilities were all removed from me.'

This talk was confusing, and painful. I was at a loss for how to help my master.  
'Sportacus, please tell me... what if all those people out there, at the party, spat upon me and shunned me, and declared me a monster?'  
I remembered some kind words that had once been offered to myself. 'Even if the whole world hated you and thought you wicked, if your own conscience absolved you, you would not be without friends.'  
He let go of a heavy breath. 'Ministrant spirit. You continue to do me good. Now, please go and find Ella, and tell her I will meet her at the billboard. Her fiance must remain with the others. Is that clear?'  
'Yes, sir.'

I fulfilled his request. Ella did not protest at coming to meet her brother alone - though her fiance put up a brief protest, she quickly and harshly shut it down.  
By now, it was well past eight o'clock, and the children were tiring. They went along with my call for bed-time quite willingly. Soon they were tucked in, and I returned to my airship, far removed from the still-raging party.

I was awoken in the early hours by a savage scream. My crystal flashed rapidly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a bit of minor gore in this chapter, as well as a (very) minor character death mentioned in passing.

That horrid cry had apparently rung throughout the whole town: I descended from the airship to find Mr Rotten addressing his peturbed party guests, robed in sleepwear and ripped from slumber.  
'Robbie! Who in the world was wailing away in that ghastly manner?' Bessie demanded.  
'Pay it no mind, dear lady. Just a little accident in my workshop. I implore you, friends, please return to sleep and do not trouble yourselves. I have it well in hand.'  
I noticed that he held an arm behind his back, and in his fist was clenched a rag, soaked with blood.

Once the final partygoer was safely returned to their accomodation, and the final door had shut, he turned to me swiftly.  
'Are you sick at the sight of blood?'  
'I don't think so.'  
'Then follow me, and quickly!'

We raced to the billboard and down the hatch ladder, into the workshop. Mr Rotten grabbed my wrist, drawing me through to a little alcove lined with doors. We passed through to a cluttered bedroom where, upon a large purple duvet, Ella Rotten was laid out. She moaned in pain: a deep gash, still oozing blood, ran from the top of her long white neck, right down to beneath her collarbone.  
I stood aside, dumbfounded at the sorry sight, as Mr Rotten hovered over his sister and clutched her little hand.

'I have already called my private physician. She is on her way over from the next town. She promised to be here as soon as she could.'  
With shallow, ragged breaths, Ella managed to speak. '...I thought I could help. But... he bit me and clawed at me like an animal...!'  
'I warned you, Ella. I told you I had him under control!...' Mr Rotten's voice was shaky.

He handed me a clean towel from the bedside. 'Keep this pressed to her wound,' he instructed. 'I must go and welcome the doctor when she comes, without awaking my guests again. Ensure that my sister rests, and stays silent. She must keep her remaining strength. Do not speak with her. I will be back.'

He left us then, in his desolate undergound lair.  
I shivered at the piteous victim before me. I had no doubt that The Persian had struck again - I could only pray that he would not still be at large, prowling about to find us. The memory of his cold, sneering face plagued my imagination.  
The bleeding from Ella's wound slowed, as the nocturnal minutes crawled by. I flinched at every tiny sound, and ardently wished for my master to return. I had no idea what hour it was.  
After a spell of time (which could have been, for all I knew, twenty minutes or two hours), the thud of footsteps echoed outside. Did they belong to friend or foe?

'She's in here,' came Mr Rotten's voice - at last, at last! - and he ushered his doctor into the room. She examined Ella, applied a temporary bandage to the wound, and at length pronounced her fit to be moved. I was called upon to assist with this, and together, we gingerly carried the frail lady out through another dreary hallway, through a secret exit that emerged in a store-room in the town hall. We were, of course, commanded to not talk of this to anyone, even Mr Meanswell.

Ella was finally settled in the passenger's seat of the doctor's car, which sat parked in front of the billboard. 'I will ensure that she recovers fully,' said the good woman.  
'Thank you.' Mr Rotten peered in at his sister. His expression turned peevish. 'You are never to go anywhere near him again! What if he had-'  
'Robbie... Let him be taken care of... let him be treated tenderly...'  
'I'll do the best I can. The same as I always have.'  
  
The doctor drove off. My master slumped against the billboard, his face grey and tired. I turned to leave, when he called:  
'Elf! Stay with me a while, the sun is rising roon.'  
I joined him, leaning against the front of the old billboard. Around us, the night slowly began to blanch away, and a rim of pink glowed on the distant mountains.  
'Sometimes I feel that this town is a bleak dungeon,' Mr Rotten murmured.

He turned to me. 'You have passed a strange night, my friend. Were you afraid, when I left you with Ella?'  
'I was worried that The Persian would come for us. He could-'  
'You were perfectly safe. You must believe me.'  
'How could I be safe when he was down there? How can anyone in this town be safe while he is still-'  
'I will do something, I promise you. But I beg you - put it out of your mind!'

The wild look in his eyes silenced me. I did not know what the dark source of his situation was, nor why The Persian could claim so much allowance from Mr Rotten. I read the fear in his expression, and was struck with a helpless desire to rescue him from whatever this dilemma was: to soothe his anguish, and calm his fear. To allow one of his wicked grins to install itself upon his dear face, rather than the consternation that he now bared.

He heaved himself up from the billboard, and stalked off into the long grass. I followed, until he came to a standstill, gazing up at the fading stars.  
'To live for me, little elf, is to stand upon a crater-crust, which may crack and spue fire any day.'  
'...I only wish I knew how to help you, sir.'  
'Ah, Sportacus. You are more help to me than you know.' He paused, gathering his thoughts for a moment. Then:  
  
'Imagine that you had inherited a life-long, mortifying burden. One that could not be shared. It was cast upon you not through any misdeed of your own, but through a cursed birthright, the poor choices of your forebears, and a rigid, uncompromising law. This burden is mortifying, and the full depths of its horror cannot be imparted to anyone, for fear it may devastate those you love best. You muddle through, then, as best you can, and take what pleasure you can from life. All the while, this damnation creeps at the edges of your mind. You live in the grip of a dire shadow.

'But then, one happy day, your come upon a bright and helpful creature. One who reminds you of your more innocent self, before resentment and bitterness had ever touched you. This creature inspires not only sweet and doting affection, but redemption. With this creature as your companion, you know you can reform, and be a better version of yourself. You find yourself at the threshhold of a purifying love. The only caveat that lies in your way: a selective silence, and the victimless omission of a damaging and needless fact. Would you risk the good opinion of the world to possess this creature?'

I considered his question. 'If you love this creature, then you should be wholly honest, and not omit the truth. But also, sir, redemption can only be found inside yourself. It does not depend on possessing someone else.'  
He lowered his head and sighed. 'I see. Once again, you cling to your impeccable morality, even at the expense of mutual joy.'  
All I could do was shrug at this.

Mr Rotten whirled around, and looked back towards Lazytown with a keen expression - his face had lost all of its softness and gravity.  
'Sportacus, you know how I dote on the lovely Bessie Busybody?'  
I carefully schooled my expression, my voice. 'Yes, sir.'  
'Well. It is my intention to make her a bride. I am determined to dance with the one I love at a glorious midsummer wedding. Don't you think she would look simply stunning in a long white bridal gown trimmed with French lace?'  
'I could not say, sir.'  
'She is a beauty... a real beauty. Oh! - I think I see her now, just rising for the day with her sister. Off with you, then, elf. I need you to go and keep the children busy, as I treat my fine guests to a sumptuous champagne breakfast.'  
'Yes, sir.'

He stalked off to greet the ladies, and I was left to make my own way.

***

I brought the children out to a green meadow just beyond the town's borders. Here, they could freely run and play and make noise, without disturbing the sleepy rising guests. The fresh air and activity helped to lift my low spirits, and for a little while I was able to forget about the terrible night just past.  
Eventually, they grew hungry for morning tea. I urged them all to be as quiet as possible as we ran back to town, and to the bounty of sports candy that was lying untouched in Mr Meanswell's kitchen.  
  
The man himself was busy at the benchtop, frying pancakes and preparing mimosa cocktails. 'Good morning, Sportacus! This letter came for you bright and early.'  
He handed me a heavy parchment envelope with a violet wax seal. It had come from the Fairy Queen's court.

'Dear Mr Magnússon,

The Court of the Fairy Queen has, after some consideration, granted you temporary leave to enter the Fairy Realm. We regret to inform you that your paternal cousin, Mr Jón Jarfisson, is recently deceased. Your paternal aunt, Mrs Sara Skuasdóttir, has suffered an apoplexy, and is currently bedridden. She has requested your presence at her home in Iceland, to impart family information of great importance. Please respond, and attend to this matter, at your earliest convenience.

Regards, Balfour Brackensnitch, Official Undersecretary of the Royal Fae Office of The Changeling and Foundling Registry.'

I found Mr Rotten in the town square, absorbed in a game of chess with Bessie.  
'Iceland!' he exclaimed. 'What the devil have you to do in Iceland!?'  
'My cousin has died, sir, and my aunt is gravely ill. She has asked for me.'  
'What! I thought you were an orphan, with no family.'  
'None that would have me, sir.

He huffed, and drummed his long fingers on the chess table.  
'And you are at the beck and call of an aunt who was cruel enough to desert you in childhood. How very like you.'  
'May I go?'  
'Fine, as you wish. But you are to return within the week! My infernal rugrats cannot look after themselves. Do I make myself clear?'  
'Thank you, sir.'

Bessie slid a chess piece across the board, and spoke up. 'Perhaps I could stay in town and help with the children? They are such darling little things, and I'm sure they could use a womanly influence.' She then plucked one of Mr Rotten's pieces from the board with her long-nailed fingers.  
He sighed. 'Do as you please, Bessie. Now, I surrender: my king has been taken by the dark queen, and I am outmaneuvered.'

I said a poignant goodbye to the children, ascended to my airship, and launched off through the skies.

***


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another minor character death coming up, if that wasn't already apparent.

In the corner of Aunt Sara's overgrown garden, I found a weathered, faded blue rubber ball. While I was waiting to be shown to her room, I passed the time by throwing the toy about on my own.  
A kindly gnome nurse soon emerged from the house. 'Spartacus? Please come through. She did not rest well this morning, but she insists on seeing you now.'

The energy that fills the bedroom of a dying person is dense, and draining, and lingers long after one has left it. I recalled Kristófer, whose demise was sweetened by dreams of Ásgarðr. Before I approached my aunt in her bed, I touched the crystal that rested next to my heart.  
The woman I had known in childhood had always seemed like an indomitable tower, with her harsh look and her booming voice. Now, she was so small - shrivelled and grey-haired, and puny against the pillows.  
'Magnús?' She called in a tiny, broken voice. 'Magnús, have you returned?'

I flinched at the sound of my father's name. _She is not in her right mind,_ I thought.  
'No, Aunt Sara,' I replied gently. 'It is Spartacus, your nephew. How are you feeling?'  
Her black pupils met my face, and a touch of her old strictness emerged, as she scrutinised my features. 'No, you are not my troublesome nephew. Horrid little demon, he is. Can never sit still or do what he's told. Always hounding my sweet Jón... Jón... where is Jón!?'

She cried out hoarsely, with all her remaining strength, and this dissolved into a painful coughing fit. I rubbed her little bony back, and once she had settled, I prompted her to sip at the water sitting on her night table. All I could feel for my childhood tyrant was keen sympathy.  
  
The next time she looked my way, she was calmer, and less bewildered.  
'You've returned,' she said flatly. 'To be honest, I am surprised that you were willing to come back here.'  
'I wanted to see you, Aunt. I am sorry for your recent loss.'  
'It is you who should have died, and not my son.'  
I could not find a way to respond to this.

'Go over to my dressing-table, and open the top drawer. Pull out the envelope you will find in there.'  
I did as she asked. It was a heavy parchment with a violet wax seal, similar to my summons from the Fairy Queen's Court. Inside was a document that read:

'This License is issued on behalf of the Fairy Queen's Court, to the Íþrottaálfúr Dynasty. It formally grants permission to the Íþróttaálfar, and their direct descendants, to freely pass between the human world and the Fairy Realm indefinitely. This decree is absolute and remains in power until otherwise notified.'

'What is this, Aunt?' I read the page a second time, to be sure that I understood the contents.  
'A few years after you were sent away, we received an interesting visitor. It prevailed that your father was not dead, after all. He came to stay with us, and asked us where you were. I told him that you'd been sent to Cowan Bridge school. And that the elf boy who had died there, struck with lightning by the now-disgraced Mr Bogle, was you.'

I sat heavily down upon the edge of the bed, unable to get enough breath in my lungs.  
'You should have seen your father's reaction. Oh, how he wept, crushed by the loss of the son he had come to reunite with. I had not seen him like that since the night your mother died. You are no doubt disgusted, to learn that I would tell my own brother such a cruel lie. I did it because I hated you, and I hated him for burdening me with you. My perfect brother,' she spat, 'the big hero.'

Her speech dissolved into another coughing fit and it took some minutes to soothe her. After another feeble gulp of water, she continued.  
'We never told you of your father's calling, for fear you would follow in his footsteps. The Íþróttaálfar are legendary, known for their heroic journeys across the world to protect human children. My father was the eighth, and Magnús was the ninth: Númer Níu. He had fancies of making you the tenth. That honour should have gone to my poor Jón.'

I looked down to the paper in my hands once more.  
'Revealing that license to you is my attempt to atone. You may take it, and do as you please, and pass through both worlds freely. I have not seen your father since I told him you were dead. I do not know if he still lives, nor do I care.'  
The talking had tired her greatly. She closed her eyes, turned her face away from me, and sunk further into the pillows.

I knew I was entitled to be angry. This spiteful woman, who should have been a source of familial love and comfort, had instead robbed me of a childhood, a family, and a legacy. It was doubtful if I would ever find my elusive father, even with the new freedom granted to me by the Fairy Queen's license.  
But gazing upon the pathetic, fading wretch, grieving for her son on her own deathbed, I felt that punishment had already been dealt.

'Thank you for being honest with me, Aunt,' I told her, and kissed her wrinkled brow. She did not respond to me.

Some time that evening, she breathed her last. As I was her only living relative, I promised her long-suffering nurse that I would stay to help with the funeral arrangements. I thought of writing to my father, but I did not know where on earth I could contact him.

On a dull Spring day, a lonely service was held, at which only myself, the nurse, and the graveyard sexton were present. The rest of my time in Iceland was spent helping the nurse pack up my Aunt's house. Most of the belongings were sold in order to pay off my cousin Jón's considerable debts. As I was digging through one of the last remaining boxes, I came upon a cloth hat of bright orange, with an elf crystal secured to the tip. I kept it for myself.

After some long weeks, I was free to go - truly free. If I chose, I could reconnect with the other huldufólk: ask about my father's possible whereabouts (if he still lived), or at least find out what had happened to him. I could even attempt to contact Kristófer's family in Þingvellir.  
My heart wanted none of this, at least for now. It directly drew me back to a tiny little town nestled amongst peaceful green paddocks.

***

I leapt down from my airship, and ran to meet the five children who awaited me. They crashed upon me with a series of vigorous bear hugs. It was a joy and a comfort to finally be back in Lazytown, the place which I earnestly, happily called my home.

They babbled on about the misadventures they had had in my absence, and spoke of singing songs, story-time, and baking cakes with Mr Rotten. Furthermore, Bessie had proven to be a firm but fair caretaker, and had even taught Stephanie how to play chess. I tried not to let my good mood deflate upon hearing this.

'Within the week,' uttered a low, growling voice. 'I believe those were my exact words. And you stay away nearly a month!'  
At the sight of Mr Rotten, delight burst through me. I was unsure how he would take to a hug, so I settled on a firm handshake.  
'What were you _doing_ in Iceland!?'  
'I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead.'  
'What a typical elf answer.'

'Ah, he's back, the prodigal babysitter.' Bessie sauntered up next to Mr Rotten. 'I have taken good care of your charges in the past month. Even Robbie has been impressed by my soft maternal touch.'  
He grinned. 'She has been reading the children fairy tales about beautiful princesses, and instructing them to be polite and well-mannered.'  
I forced myself to return a smile. 'I appreciate your kindness.'  
  
'Well Robbie,' the lady said, turning to her companion, 'if you have no further need of me, I simply _must_ rejoin civilisation. Stina has been beside herself with worry about me, and the Summer social season will be starting soon.'  
He sighed. 'If you must leave. But Bessie?'  
'Yes?'  
'Promise me that you'll consider my proposal.'  
Her face softened here. 'I will. Now, au revoir, mon cher.'  
She pressed a firm kiss to his cheek, and departed.  
'I will make her a bride yet,' he told me, watching her retreating form.

***

My reason continued to seethe at me: 'Sense! Sanity! Duty!', it exclaimed. I was nothing but a helpful employee to Mr Rotten. And once he had finally won the hand of Ms Busybody in matrimony, it was very possible that my services would no longer be needed in Lazytown. The children would have a mother, and a closed, complete family unit. From thence I would be unattached, primed to rejoin my people and find a new position.

But what is so headstrong, and blind, as feeling? Every time I entertained this prospect, I sickened with despair. For now, I was permitted the pleasure of remaining in Lazytown, playing with my dear children, conversing with the kindly Mr Meanswell, and being near my beloved master. I resolved, instead, to live in the balmy present, and not to dwell on my uncertain future.

As the Spring blossoms withered and Summer lengthened the days, I treasured every moment spent with my little makeshift clan. Mr Rotten remained in town, and Mr Meanswell remarked to me that this was the longest he had ever lingered. In fact, during his usual stays, he would mostly be holed up in his workshop, inaccessible.  
  
But I saw him every day. At my request, he re-told the tale of Rottenbeard the Pirate, as well as many other dark, danger-filled sagas. He became an active participant in the childrens' playtime, and I was amused to discover his poor athletic skills. Stephanie and I coached him through games of football and basketball - though after a few attempts, he opted instead to simply watch us play, reclining upon his favoured bench nearby.  
He would come with me to tuck the children in at night, and proved to be adept at singing lullabies to Ziggy, who professed a fear of the dark. Stephanie, too, requested these lullabies, though I suspect it was only for the pleasure of hearing Mr Rotten's rich, dulcet bass-baritone voice.   
And to my great relief, The Persian remained absent and silent, contained somewhere remotely in the underground lair.

During this time, Mr Rotten was the happiest that I had ever seen him, and I had never loved him so deeply.

***

Midsummer arrived, and the countryside was a sultry, radiant burst of green. The children savoured the lengthy afternoons, reluctant to settle into bed while the sun still sat in the sky, filtering golden sunsets across the town. I resolved to tire them out each day, filling their leisure hours with sports and dancing and all kinds of nourishing activity. These youngsters were different creatures to the gawkish, irritable rascals they had been upon my first arrival.

One evening, having finally seen them off to sleep, I took myself walking through the nearby woods. The songs of roosting birds echoed in the warm fragrant air. I sat myself down upon the root of an enormous ancient apple tree.  
'Sportacus,' came the voice of Mr Rotten, 'Lazytown is a pleasant place in the Summer, is it not?'  
 _He has followed me out here_ , I thought, as he appeared and perched beside me. Just as soon as he was seated, a butterfly with brilliant, sapphire-blue wings alighted on his hand.  
'Ah! Handsome fellow! What exotic land have you flown in from?'  
The animal fluttered its wings a little, before Mr Rotten launched him into the sky once more. 'Off with you, beast, back to your airborne wanderings.'

We sat in the gloaming for some time, as the final ribbons of sunlight descendend through the branches.  
'Have you enjoyed your time in Lazytown, elf?'  
After a long silence, I answered his question. 'I love Lazytown. It is the happiest I have ever been in my life. Here, I have found purpose, and friendship, and I have been treated as an equal.'  
'Oh? I am glad to hear it.'  
'...But I know that I must soon leave, sir.'  
He looked carefully at me. 'You must leave, you say?'  
'Bessie will take care of the children, after the wedding.'  
'I see.'

Mr Rotten stood, and paced across the grass. His voice sounded carefree. 'Very well, then. But surely I cannot send my little friend out into the wide world, without first lending some assistance.'  
'Sir?'  
'I will secure you a new position, caring for children, as is your vocation. I could recommend you for the education of the five daughters of a Mrs Gabriella Gall. She is a friend of Stina's. For this, you would take up residence at the Gall family's estate, at Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You'll like Ireland, I think.'

I could not move, for the sorrow that suddenly fell upon my shoulders.  
'Ireland...? But... it is so far away...'  
'From what, elf?'  
'From Lazytown. From Mr Meanswell, and Stephanie, and the children... and...'  
'Yes?'  
'From you, sir!'

I was overcome with dismal tears - the now clear reality of being torn from all that I cared for was sheer agony! Mr Rotten turned back towards the apple tree, and knelt down before me.  
'I must confess, I would be sorry to see you go. You know, I have a strange feeling regarding you sometimes. As if there is a string knotted under my ribs, around my beating heart, and the other end is attached likewise, here.' He pressed a large, gentle hand to my chest, and brushed the crystal that sat in my pocket. 'If that string were stretched for miles across the sea, it would be snapped, and I woud bleed inwardly.'  
For one strange second, we locked eyes. He then laughed it off and got to his feet. 'But you would forget me, I'm sure.'  
'I could _never_ forget you, Mr Rotten!'

The swell of love and grief that had been rising now reached its apex, like an outpouring of volcanic fire, and I was driven to speak the truth.  
'Do you think that I can stand having my happiness ripped from me? That I will just bear up and obey instructions, like some machine? I have as much heart as you and as full as much soul! And if the gods had gifted me with any status or sophistication, I would make it as hard for you to leave me as it is for me to leave you!'  
'Must you leave me?' he asked.  
'You are to be married, sir! You will make Bessie into a bride!'

I turned, and tried to steal away, but he grabbed me by the shoulders.  
'Yes! - Yes, I intend to make Bessie a bride, and for her to marry Milford!'  
'What?'  
He took a few deep, uneven breaths, and I could feel that he was shaking. Pink bloomed in his face.  
'I have been appealing to Bessie to consider Milford as a husband. For he has loved her madly - ever since he laid eyes on her - just as madly as I love _you!'_

This stilled my struggle against him.  
'I can hardly believe you.'  
'Sportacus, you are my second self. I offer you my hand, my heart, and all a share of all my earthly possessions, to pass through life as my best earthly companion.'  
'You... but you love Bessie.'  
'As a friend, yes! But she has never roused any deep, pure passion in me - the kind I feel every time I gaze upon this divine face.' Here I felt him cradle my cheek in his heated, clammy hand.  
'...You mean it? You truly love me?'  
'With all the life in my body. Be my husband, Sportacus. Please say you'll have me, I am yours utterly!'  
'Then sir - Robbie - I will marry you!'  
'My little elf!'

He wrapped me up in a long-limbed embrace, and showered me in sweet kisses. This was an entirely new bliss to me - to be his, and to have him, and to be so wholly loved!  
I swept him away to my airship that night, and we made love, fervent and celebratory. A storm hit Lazytown some time during the night, and the next morning, we found the ancient apple tree struck down by lightning, its grand old trunk split in two.


	11. Chapter 11

I now lived and breathed in the grip of constant giddiness - it was strangely difficult to come to terms with my new situation. My dearest Mr Rotten loved me back, and he was determined to make me his husband. When a person lives for so long with an unsatisfied craving, yearning for a paradise just outside of their reach, to have it suddenly dropped into one's lap is disorienting, just as much as it is joyful.

One morning, after finishing a maths lesson with the children, Mr Meanswell invited me to his cottage for tea. His usual jovial manner was muted.  
'I hardly know what to say,' he told me. 'Just ten minutes ago, Mr Rotten came here to tell me that you two are to be married. Surely this can't be true?'  
'Yes, it is.'  
'But why?'

This struck me - I had thought Mr Meanswell was fond of me. 'Is it so hard to believe he loves me?'  
He patted my hand. 'Oh no, Sportacus, I don't mean that. But I thought you were such a sensible young man, not prey to foolish passions such as this! I don't mean to dampen your happiness, but you have known Mr Rotten for only a matter of months, and he is your employer. Marriage seems like such a rash decision!'  
'You love Bessie,' I responded.

He sighed, his eyes downcast. 'Bessie Busybody has enchanted me, it's true. But Mr Rotten's scheme to wed the two of us, though generous, is quite foolish. Bessie and I barely know each other. I would love the chance to acquaint myself with her further, before rushing in to such a commitment.'  
'I understand your concerns, I do. But I promise you, this marriage will not be a mistake. I _know_ him, and I love him with my full heart.'  
'I am sure you do, Sportacus,' Mr Meanswell said sadly, 'and I truly hope that you are right.'

***

Each evening, my fiance would bid me come to him, and we spent many happy hours in each other's company. On this night, however, Mr Meanswell's words echoed in my head.  
I sat upon the soft orange recliner, entwined with my beloved's long, slender form. He sprinkled feverish kisses down the side of my face. I was somewhat unresponsive; he picked up on this quickly.  
  
'Everything alright? Did Stingy try to swipe your hat again?'  
'I spoke with Mr Meanswell today. He thinks we're making a rash desicion.'  
'About the wedding?' He huffed. 'I detect a little jealousy, methinks. He only wishes it were he and Bessie being wed.'  
I shook my head at this. 'You don't think we're going a little too fast? I mean, we could consider a long engagement.'  
'My exalted sprite. I would marry you tomorrow, if I could. I would carry you up to the heavens, where the sunlight would bathe your skin and illuminate your wavy golden hair, and I would fashion a throne for you from the clouds. You would put Apollo to shame!'  
  
'I am not a god, Mr Rotten,' I reminded him.  
'I told you to call me Robbie.'  
'Until we are married, I will remain your employee. I will continue to teach the children, and I will call you Mr Rotten.'  
'You maddening pixie! Fine, do as you please, and taunt me. But in one short month, I will be your husband, and I will sweep you away on a decadent honeymoon that will make you forget all about your precious propriety.' He drew his hand through my hair, down my neck, and my skin tingled at the warm contact.  
'I will show you off at the Paris Opera, and the Matignon, and the Epicure at Hôtel Le Bristol. I will then whisk you off to its grand Imperial suite, where our lovemaking will tire out even your vast energy reserves.'

These beautiful, seductive words still could not put me at ease.  
'Alright. Once that happens, if that happens-'  
' _When_ that happens, air-headed imp! And furthermore, you will come shopping with me tomorrow, for our wedding attire.'  
'Can the children come, too?'  
Mr Rotten grumbled. 'Not a chance.'

***

'Sportacus, Trixie is squishing me!'  
'That's 'cause Pixel is taking up all the room with his stupid handheld game!'  
'I'm hungry!'  
'You kids knock it off!' Mr Rotten hollered.

The next morning, we were being driven to Millcote. It was a nearby shopping district, which Mr Rotten had declared serviceable though not ideal. I had gotten my way - once I had appealed to Mr Rotten's soft heart, insisting that I would miss the children dearly while we were to be away on honeymoon, he relented (albeit with a great sulk).

'Is it true that you're gonna take Sportacus to Paris?' asked Stephanie.  
'Oh yes. And from there, I will take my new husband to the city of Florence. He will stand in the presence of the David statues carved by the Old Masters, and they will all diminish before his vibrant masculine beauty.'  
'Who's David?'  
'He was a great king of old Judea, who smote the villain Goliath and won the devoted love of Prince Jonathan. I've half a mind to sculpt a David statue for Lazytown, in the likeness of our elegant elf. Trixie, you will need to lend me your slingshot!'  
'As if Sportacus could stay still long enough to model for a statue!' the girl retorted.

Our first stop was a fabric store. One of Mr Rotten's many talents was that of an expert seamstress, and he had resolved to make our outfits for the ceremony himself.  
Among the many reams of luxurious material, I spotted a smooth, navy blue cotton. 'I like this one.'  
He made a face at me. 'As if something so drab could befit your chiselled loveliness! Something more like this will do.' He held up a ream of peacock blue silk, embossed with a shimmering damask. 'It will set off the plum-coloured suede I have chosen for my tail coat.'  
'I would feel odd, wearing something so flashy.'  
'It's not flashy, it's glamourous!'  
'That's why it wouldn't suit me!'

A flustered sales girl stepped in, and eventually managed to talk Mr Rotten around to buying a length of each of the two fabrics.  
'I will make this plain cotton into your pyjamas,' he threatened.

From there we went to a series of boutiques, to purchase clothing for the honeymoon trip. Similar arguments were had over the style of my choices, but luckily I managed to recruit Stephanie to help make my case: namely simpler, hardier garments than what my fiance wanted me to wear. He managed to get away with one formal outfit for the opera and a fitted sky blue silk shirt, but the remainder of my new wardrobe was blessedly practical. (I noticed that he did not complain about the rather snug pair of jeans that I liked.)

***

The next week, Mr Rotten made a second trip out of Lazytown, to collect our specially-ordered wedding rings - he refused to trust a courier with their delivery, and insisted on picking them up from the jeweller himself. By the time night fell, another Summer storm was brewing, and he had not yet returned.  
Mr Meanswell found me pacing by the billboard, watching the gathering storm clouds.  
'I just got off the phone with him. He is staying at a hotel in Millcote tonight, due to the weather. Don't worry, Sportacus, he will be back tomorrow. Now, you'd better get inside before the rain comes.'

I followed his advice, shimmying down the hatch door. I had spent many recent evenings in the underground lair, and with Mr Rotten's protection, I had remained safe. But now, I was alone in the workshop. And for all I knew, The Persian was still lurking somewhere deep within the labyrinth.

I considered returning to the surface and seeking shelter in my airship, but my eye was caught by the newly-finished blue frock coat that sat upon one of Mr Rotten's mannequins. It was beautifully shaped, with a tapered waist and graceful lapels, and smart buttons of inlaid silver. He had chosen the damask peacock silk to make it. A dignified garment fit for a king, and yet it was intended to sit upon my humble shoulders.

I rested myself upon the orange recliner, and was overcome with the lingering spice of Mr Rotten's cologne. Ignoring my better judgement, I allowed myself to be pulled down by fatigue, and I slept.

A fearsome nightmare visited me: I dreamed that I was running through town towards the billboard, screaming Mr Rotten's name in distress. What I found was a crumbling ruin, and the forbidding form of The Persian, commanding me to leave town forever.  
At some dark, eary hour, I started awake. As I opened my eyes, I was dazzled by the sight of a flame held before my face: someone else was in the room with me, carrying a candle about with them.

I gathered my bearings. For one joyful moment I thought that Mr Rotten had returned home in the night. Though half-obscured in the stark shadows thrown by the little candle, the person before me had my fiance's height as well as his fine pale eyes.  
The figure snarled at me, and jumped back. My nerves calcified. This person was not Mr Rotten, nor The Persian, nor anyone else I knew in Lazytown. They clomped across the floor, and I heard a pair of heeled boots hit the cement.  
I then realised that my crystal was pulsing urgently from my breast pocket.

I dared not move. I could not tell what this stranger was: a thief, a saboteur, a ghost? They climed up the catwalk that held Mr Rotten's row of mannequins. Then, I was made to watch as my peacock blue wedding coat was yanked off the mannequin, and ripped apart with the stranger's large, pale hands. The shredded rags were tossed to the floor.  
The figure then clomped down the catwalk, past me, and down one of the far corridors. A few seconds later, I heard a heavy metal door slammed shut and bolted tight.

I flew off the chair in pursuit of this strange monster, but the door I came upon was sealed fast. For all my attempts to break it down, I could not get in. I had no desire to rouse The Persian, so I gave up my fearful pursuit. I fled from the workshop, through the rain, back to the relative safety of my airship. I did not sleep at all.

The moment that Mr Rotten set foot back in Lazytown, I enveloped him in a desperate embrace.  
'Only twenty-four hours' absence, and you are reduced to this! Clearly you cannot do without me!'  
I grabbed his hand, and brought him down to the workshop, where the ruined coat still lay.  
'This was not done by myself, or the children, or even The Persian. A stranger broke in last night, sir, and they locked themselves into one of your inner rooms.'

I had anticipated his blazing anger. But Mr Rotten's reaction was plain, dumbstruck horror. He now pulled me to his chest.  
'Oh, thank the gods nothing worse happened!'   
'There is someone, or something, hiding down here. If not The Persian, then who?'

He gripped my arms, and I felt his fingernails digging into my flesh.  
'My darling. I beg you, please don't trouble yourself. It was probably just the drunken hijinks of one of the other Lazytowners, perhaps resentful of our happiness-'  
'I don't believe you!' I cried. 'What if this... individual came for the children!?'  
Mr Rotten took a sharp breath. 'I promise, I _swear_ I would never let that happen. The children are perfectly safe. Please trust me when I tell you that I have everything under control.'  
I shook my head. 'I only wish I could believe you.'

'Listen to me. We have a joyous event to look forward to. This is not the time to be dwelling on phantom fears. Before we leave, I will lock up the entire workshop, and entrust the protection of every entrance to Milford and The Persian - yes, he _is_ trustworthy, Sportacus! The town will be safe, and you and I will be far away, enjoying our newly wedded bliss. If I have to swear an oath-'  
'Swear it,' I demanded. 'Swear to me that the town and everyone in it will be safe.'  
He looked me deep in the eyes. 'Upon my sight, upon my very life.'

A second wedding coat was made for me, from the navy blue cotton.

***


	12. Chapter 12

The morning of my wedding dawned bright and clear. As I rose for the day, I began to count down the hours left of my life as Sportacus, the free unattached elf. He would soon be gone, to be replaced by the adored and adorned husband of Mr Rotten, master of Lazytown.

The morning passed quickly, a simple breakfast and one final game of football with the children. All too soon, I was called to Mr Meanswell's cottage, where I would dress for the ceremony. As I turned to leave, Stephanie burst into tears.  
I knelt down to hug her gently, and she spilled her heart to me: 'You and Robbie will be gone for so long, and I will miss you, and when you come back you won't have time to play with us anymore!'  
'That's not true. We'll only be gone for a month or so. And when I return - and I promise I will - I will play games with all of you children, and continue teaching your lessons.'  
'But what if you don't?'

I was overcome with sympathy for the little girl: she had been bereft of a family for most of her life, and her brief time in my care was now disrupted.  
I clasped her tiny hand. 'I promise I'll come back.'

Mr Rotten had scheduled the celebrant to begin proceedings at two o'clock sharp. After this, we would leave immediately in the airship, heading straight to Paris. I had precious little time to bathe, groom, and don my elaborate outfit. Mr Meanswell assisted with my hair and cravat, and we heard Mr Rotten calling for me to hurry up from outside.  
'Let's go,' I said.  
'Hold on, Sportacus, don't you want to see yourself?'

Mr Meanswell nudged me towards his dress mirror. Some polished, perfect gentleman stared back at me, a fairy tale figure in a frock coat, a stranger.  
'...Is that really me?'  
'You look so handsome.'  
'Step lively!' came Mr Rotten's voice. 'We haven't got all day!'

I exited the cottage to find my groom pacing, grumbling, and utterly breathtaking in his plum-coloured suede. As he turned to behold me, his grimace gave way to a look of delight.  
'You are a vision, fair as Adonis. Now come on!'  
His gloved hand grabbed my arm, and hauled me off to be wed.

A simple setting had been put up in the park - the children served as flower girls and page boys, and a registrar and celebrant stood at the head of the gathering. They bid us approach, and Mr Rotten marched us up before them.  
The group stood still as the celebrant announced the nuptials. I could feel the grip of Mr Rotten's hand grow tighter and tighter on my own.

'I require and charge you both, that if either of you knows of any reason why you may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, you do now confess it.'  
The requisite pause came and went, and the celebrant continued. She turned to Mr Rotten.  
'Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband-'  
'The marriage cannot go on. I declare an impediment.'

The celebrant looked to the far end of the park, where The Persian stood, sullen and forbidding.  
'Continue,' Mr Rotten commanded.  
'I am sorry, sir, but I am obliged to hear this. What impediment exists?'  
  
The Persian took a deep breath. 'The last will and testament of Dr Rotten, the late owner and master of this town, clearly instructs that all the Rotten family's marriages and inheritances legally require the full consent of his eldest son; that is to say, Lazytown's current owner. Robbie is not Dr Rotten's eldest son - he has an older brother.'  
'And what proof do you have,' Mr Rotten growled, turning to face his accuser, 'that my brother still lives?'  
'Ample proof, which I can easily demonstrate. I have been the caretaker of the elder Mr Rotten for many years. He is kept down in the younger Mr Rotten's workshop, as we speak.'

Mr Rotten bared his teeth. Without warning, he rushed at The Persian and grabbed him by his vest, throttling him violently. 'You would turn traitor on me NOW!?'  
The bystanders uttered cries of alarm. To our further astonishment, The Persian shot forth yellow-gold sparks of light from his fingers. Mr Rotten was flung from his victim to the ground beneath. Heart hammering, I rushed to help him up.  
  
The Persian regained his composure. 'Robbie. As dearly as I care for you, _azizam_ , I could not simply stand by, while you entangled this innocent young man into your calamity.'  
Mr Rotten's head hung heavy. A brief, deathly silence passed through the air.  
'Well then. You have your wish. There will be no wedding today.'  
He got to his feet. 'Enough! Begone, all of you brats!'  
The tearful children ran from the scene, left to console one another.  
'Milford, Sportacus, come with me. I will introduce you to the true master of Lazytown.'

***

We were led down the hatch, through the workshop, and far down a long corridor. At the end of this sat a heavy door, the same one I had attempted to shift open before.  
'How is he today, then?' Mr Rotten asked The Persian.  
'Tolerable. A little snappish, but not violent.'

More ribbons of yellow-gold light flowed from The Persian's fingers, and we were admitted to the chamber.  
The large, windowless room was furnished with a bed, an ensuite, and ample padding against the walls and floor. Many of these panels bore vicious rips and tears. Perched in the centre of the room upon a cushion was a man dressed in black. He was physically identical to Mr Rotten - the same profile, the same strong chin and fine piercing eyes. But in carriage and demeanour, he exuded a dark, predatory aggression that I had never before seen in another person.

He eyed his brother carefully, and a smile creeped onto his face. When his gaze landed on myself however, his pupils dilated, and he launched himself at me like a pouncing wolf, snarling and roaring.  
I was saved only by the yellow-gold magic that The Persian quickly shot forth. It seized the brute and thrust him to the soft padded ground. He curled in on himself and whined piteously.  
Mr Rotten kneeled before him, stroking his shaggy black hair tenderly.  
'This,' he told us, 'is my twin brother Glanni, my senior by a mere five minutes.'

'Our father, Dr Ignatius Rotten, was a proud man who valued tradition. The title of master of Lazytown had been passed from father to eldest son for many generations. He was determined, no matter the consequences, to ensure that the tradition continued intact. Glanni is the legal owner of this land, and no marriage or inheritance can be legally settled without his approval. The matter of his insanity was of no consequence to my father. He refused to hear my pleas to change this perverse custom; declaring me nothing but a greedy spare.'

'You have probably wondered why I was so quick to recognise you, elf, as a being of the Fairy Realm. It is because I, too, am an elf, at least on my mother's side. Lilla Rotten was beautiful and brilliant, an elven opera singer. She came to regret her marriage to my strict father - he forbade her from returning to the stage, or using her elf magic. It was Glanni who inherited the bulk of her unearthly powers - he has a particular talent for casting fire. As you can imagine, trying to care for a mad son with magical abilities was dreadful for her - an unending trial of stress and sorrow. I helped as much as I could, though my powers are not great: that glamour I cast for my fortune teller disguise is about the limit of my abilities.'

'One night, when I was thirteen, Glanni escaped from his room. My mother and I followed him through the countryside, into the mountains. Terrified that he would harm himself or others, my mother threw herself upon Glanni. He cast a fire spell directly at her. I am convinced he did not possess the sense to understand...'  
Here Mr Rotten choked on his own words. I was suddenly conscious of the tears spilling down my face.  
He collected himself and continued.  
'I was made to watch as my own mother was burned alive. In my rage and despair, I managed to subdue Glanni. Despite his madness, he is still my twin, and in more lucid moments he has shown deference to me. I led him back home, where I had to face my father, and my dear little Ella. I did not have the heart to tell them that Glanni had killed our mother, so I told them that she had run away, fed up with having to care for such a monstrous family.'

I went to comfort Mr Rotten, but The Persian approached him first, laying a bejwelled hand on his shoulder.  
'Your suspicions of our Persian friend were perhaps understandable, but entirely misdirected. He is a djinn, and an old friend of my mother's from her time spent in Tehran. He has proved indispenable, caring for my poor brother, and using his potent djinn magic to prevent him from causing harm. Up until this afternoon, I considered him one of my dearest friends.'  
He flung The Persian's hand from his shoulder, and stood, turning away from the djinn. Guilt clawed my insides as I recalled the way I had disrespected this brave, steadfast fellow.

'Can you truly blame me, for wishing to defy the edict of my tyrannical dead father, and have this beautiful creature for my own? For all my troubles, have I not earned the right to be loved?'  
'Glanni clearly showed his disapproval, when he ripped apart your groom's wedding coat,' The Persian replied.  
'And can Glanni's reasoning be trusted?'  
'It is trusted under the law. Furthermore, you were dishonest with Sportacus, and you shut him out of your deepest confidence.'  
'Because I know he would not have married me, for his upstanding morals!'

At this moment, I fled from the room, back to my airship.  
One by one, I removed the hallowed garments that belonged to Robbie Rotten's husband, folded them up, and packed them away. I retrieved the functional uniform of Sportacus, bereft of onaments but for the crystal upon my chest.  
Drained of energy, I sank down on the airship floor, and mourned everything that had been revoked from me - including Mr Rotten's honesty and trust.

***

I descended some time that evening, when the town was empty. I found Mr Rotten curled into his recliner, still clad in his wedding coat.  
'You deceived me,' I said to him. 'If you'd just told me the truth, I would have provided you comfort, helped to you care for Glanni, stayed by your side as a loyal helpmate-'  
'But you would not have married me,' he declared.  
'Not if it was dishonest.'

He raised his head. 'Sportacus... please believe me, I never intended to do you any harm. You are still dearer to me than my own flesh...'  
He moved to embrace me, and I recoiled from him.  
'I see how it is,' he snarled, 'you could love Mr Rotten, but you cannot love the accursed younger brother of Master Glanni!'  
'I do not mean to distress you... I am so sorry for all the hardships you have suffered... but we cannot continue on as we have been.'  
He threw up his arms. 'Then what would you have me do?'

'For one thing, you must send the children away from here, somwhere safely out of reach from your brother. And Mr Meanswell, and the other residents. Bessie has proven a good caretaker in the past.'  
'Fine, I will see to it tomorrow. And what of us?'  
'You must continue to take care of Glanni.'  
'And you will not stay with me, to aid in this burden?' A tone of such bitter sadness had entered his voice, that it hurt me physically to hear it. 'I am to assume that all your affection for me has vanished, and you now hate me...'

'I love you with all my heart, and I'll love you always,' I declared tearfully, 'but this is the last time I will ever express it. Mr Rotten, I must leave you.'  
'Leave me?' he cried, and I detected his rising panic.  
'I can provide no further help here. I need to leave this mess behind, and start afresh, in the Fairy Realm where I belong.'  
'Help!?' he repeated, 'Sportacus, you will leave me a heartbroken ruin!'  
'You are not ruined,' I insisted, 'you are a free living person, and you must trust in yourself.'

I could not find the will to resist as he grasped my hands, planting pathetic kisses on my face.  
'You would leave me, then, and shun the love I still freely offer? You would leave this?'  
'Yes,' I managed to say.  
'I have a Summer villa in the South of France. We could leave Glanni here with The Persian, and live as we ought, as a married couple. No-one there would know any better.'  
' _We_ would, Mr Rotten! We'd be living a lie, and in time, you would come to resent me! I cannot allow our love to be abused by such a sham.'

He was shaking violently. I sat him back down in his chair, took his large head in my hands, and placed a firm, final kiss upon his brow.  
'May the gods bless you, Mr Rotten, and may you be safe.'

I dared not look back, for I knew that if I saw my treasured Mr Rotten in the depths of his misery, I would be unable to ever leave his side. I forsook this temptation, and obeyed the fine, clear voice in my head that commanded: 'leave Lazytown now, and return to the huldufólk.'  
  
A heart-wrenching sob reached me as I climbed the hatch ladder, and I ran for my airship, my own tears clouding my vision. A few minutes later I took to the helm of the ship, wiped my eyes, and left behind my former home forever.  
My crystal burned with hot orange light, all throughout the evening.


	13. Chapter 13

The airship cut through the dense grey fog that had settled upon the sea. As I piloted it through the darkness, heavy silence sat about me like a cloak. Neither hope nor excitement bolstered me - the only thing that spurred me was my grim determination to reach the Icelandic coast.

I moored the ship in a secluded harbour, observed only by a few curious seabirds. My plan was to seek out the settlements of my fellow huldufolk, nestled among the rocks and the moss. However, I was first drawn to the bright commotion of Reykjavik. Like a wild animal that had been hand-reared, I found it difficult to resist the promise of human care.

The evening sun sat low above the hills, and most of the establishments still open could only offer refreshment in the form of alcohol and processed fast foods. After some wandering, I managed to find a stylish vegan cafe, where a sizable chunk of my dwindling savings allowed me a bitter, insubstantial green salad. I went to sleep still needled by hunger.  
I was able to stock up on produce at a grocery store the next morning, while receiving a number of suspicious stares. I supposed that Icelanders had some sense of what they were looking at, when they saw a long cloth hat pulled low over one's ears.  
As soon as I had breakfasted, the city was left behind, and I took off into the wilderness.

The settlement that my aunt's house was part of lay near Skorradalsvatn. Instead of returning to the site of my boyhood degradation, I had decided to find the elves that lived in Þingvellir: Kristófer's kinsmen. There was not a soul I knew, not a single clue that I had which could possibly lead me to their whereabouts.

It was vaguely saddening to realise that I did not know what to look for - while Cowan Bridge School had been concealed with the use of elven charms, we had never been instructed on how to recognise this magic. As orphans destined to labour under human command, there had been no purpose in our learning this. I decided to simply trust my instincts, and hope that the path I forged would cast me into their midst.

After a few hours, I did come across another area of human occupation: swarms of tourists and parked cars, daytripping and holidaying to take in the spectacle of the ancient valley. I kept as wide a berth as possible, hoping that I would not arouse suspicion, and instead appear as a simple solitary hiker.  
  
As I skirted the shores of þingvallavatn, a storm quickly rose up - the wild winds made it hard to keep on my feet, and icy rain sheeted down like knives. It had been a long time since I had faced the changeable temper of the Icelandic countryside.  
Through the squall, I pushed on, until I saw a figure up ahead waving wildly at me: an old human fisherman.  
'Ertu týndur? Þarftu hjálp?' He called hoarsely over the storm.  
  
My attitude toward human interaction had very quickly changed, and I thanked him profusely as he offered me a seat in his jeep. He drove us to a wooden holiday cottage a mile or so own the coast. Unlike some of the other humans, he seemed blithely unheeding of my appearance, and my cloth hat.

The warmth of the little building was an instant relief. The fellow tossed me a large towel, and got to work on gutting some fish from his day's catch. Soon a rustic, well-seasoned soup was on the cooker, and we dined over a little small talk.

The fellow was a banker from the city, who habitually escaped the clamour of his working life and chaotic family to come to the peace of the lakeside. He chided me for hiking about alone, without a companion or the proper equipment, and he gave me a rundown of the required preparations for such a venture. I tried not to be reminded of Mr Rotten by this man's gruff affability, and I failed miserably.  
I helped him to clean the dishes. As the storm raged on outside, he secluded himself in a game of solitaire, and I dozed on his creaky little settee.

Evening fell, and the skies cleared. The fisherman drove me up to the visitors' centre parking lot, commanding me to head back home. I promised him that I would.  
My repeated words of thanks to him felt hollow in my mouth. Instead, I reached into my backpack and offered him an untouched packet of macadamia nuts - a leftover treat from Lazytown. His weathered face lit up with a broad boyish grin, and he roundly insisted that I take his own untouched packet of dried fruits - something forced on him by his insistent wife, that he had absolutely no interest in.  
We parted amiably, and once his jeep disappered on the horizon, I took off back into the wild.

The midnight sun dipped beneath the skyline for an hour or so, and pale stars delicately dotted the milky sky. Once more, I was cold and alone, and unsure of my destination.  
Scrambling up to the top of a hill, I surveyed the remote land beneath. Somewhere in the vast expanse, my people lived and communed and carried on together. Finding them was like trying to catch smoke. What if they had already seen me, and chosen to shun me?

Absently, I opened the packet of dried fruit and popped a piece into my mouth.  
A strong, sickening sweetness hit my tounge. Panic flared through me, as I recognised why the blood in my veins felt like it was suddenly boiling, and why it seemed that my lungs could not take enough air.  
The sugar meltdown overcame me. I crumpled to the rocky ground, and a burst of pain cracked against my head, just before I blacked out.

***

The very next thing I felt was warmth, and a soft surface, and the severe weakness still in my bones. I reflexively took in a sharp breath - the redolent tang of burning firewood. I reckoned I was delirious, as next I heard a voice from my distant childhood, whispering at my side:  
'What are the chances, though? You're out on a ramble and he just happens to be in yer path? I'm just glad ye found the great eejit...'

Gently, carefully, a hand lifted my face, and a cool, crisp slice of celery was eased upon my tongue.  
'There ya go, boyo, let's fix that sugar meltdown, now...'  
I managed to swallow a tiny bite, and my faculties slowly began to sharpen. I found myself gazing up at a blonde leprechaun woman, wearing a sharp frown that I recognised all too well.  
'...Penny?...'

'Ah, his nibs returns to the land of the living! What were ye doin', then, out and about on yer own, poisoning yourself with these!?' She held up the bag of dried fruit. 'Candied orange peel!? Crystallised pineapple!? Didn't ye know that stuff was full of nasty human sweeteners!?'  
At the bedside, patient and easy-going as ever, stood Jives, who was now in his prime, and impressively tall. 'Alright, Sportacus?'  
'You had us so worried,' Penny continued. 'We didn't want our big surprise reunion to end up wi' you in a casket!' She wrapped her arms about me in a constricting hug.

I soon found the strength to sit up. I was laid out on a cot in what looked to be the common area of a modernised elf long house. The hearth blazed merrily, and I realised that I was cocooned in a traditional patterned woollen blanket. These nostalgic surroundings, and the concerned friendly faces of my old classmates, had me quite overwhelmed. In the wake of such profound loss, the gods had proven they could temper judgement with mercy.

Once Penny was satisfied that I was awake and comfortable, she headed down the hallway and fussed about in one of the bedrooms.  
'You two moved to Iceland?' I asked Jives.  
He shrugged. 'When the Fairy Queen finally lifted the ban on magical orphans in the Fairy Realm, we decided to go find Kristófer's family. His old dad had passed away in the meantime, but we were given such a warm welcome by the huldufolk here in Þingvellir. I started a veggie patch, and I'm even growing some hydroponic tomatoes now. The other elves helped me to set it all up. We're like family now. I mean, we're all just various types of fair folk, right? This turned out to be the perfect place for Penny and me to settle down together.' I noticed a gold ring on Jives' finger, and I pushed down a studden stab of envy.

Penny emerged again, holding a groggy but curious little toddler in her arms. 'This is our son Stefán. Say hello to your Uncle Sportacus, love!'  
The tiny boy blinked at me owlishly, and his mother kissed his wispy, sleep-mussed curls. I could not help but be charmed.  
'You know, Afi's due back in town today,' said Jives, 'I can't wait for you to meet him, guy.'  
  
Penny put little Stefán down upon the rug, where he promptly snatched up an errant teddy bear and began chewing its ear.  
'Oh I know. Afi's a real live wire - such a unit, even despite his age. Can never sit still. He really reminds us of you, Sportacus. He took off on an errand to Akureyri a few days ago, but I promised him a double helping of my lamb stew if he came back by-'

A robust rapping was heard at the front door. Jives went to greet the visitor.  
'Góðan daginn, krakkar, I'm back as promised. So, where is my lamb stew, then? I'm famished!'

Some deep instinct crackled through every last corner of my nervous system. The moment I looked upon this silver-haired elf man, I could not look away. He was compact and nuggety, and vigourously fit, with the sprightly air of a person that spent most of his days in the fresh air. A saffron-coloured cloth hat sat upon his head, and a long mustache adorned his face. He wore a brown leather breastplate, upon which was embroidered a bold red number nine.  
He stared back at me with eyes that were the exact same as mine.

'Ah! Speak o' the devil,' Penny chuckled. 'This is Magnús, though we all call him Afi. He was the ninth Íþróttaálfur, before he retired, don't ye know. Afi, let me introduce our old school chum-'  
'Spartacus...!' my father cried. '...You're alive!?'  
'As are you, Pabbi,' I answered quietly.


	14. Chapter 14

My father knelt before me, reaching out for me, awe in his eyes.  
'Your hands... I remember how little these hands once were...'  
I remained silent, as I watched him touch my hands, my arms, my face. Behind him, Penny and Jives looked unsure of what to do with themselves, onlookers in their own home. Penny picked up little Stefán and clutched him tight.

'How is this possible...? I went to Cowan Bridge, I saw your grave!'  
'That was my friend Kristófer, Pabbi. Didn't you ask the headmaster, Mr Hardy?'  
Pabbi hung his head. 'All this time... all this time, and my son was still alive...' He then lost his words, shaking with sobs. He held my hands again.

Penny spoke up. 'We're so sorry, love. We had no idea. We heard that Afi had a son who'd died, but we felt it was too painful a thing to press him about.'  
I nodded at her heavily. 'It's okay.'  
Penny and Jives eventually left us to tend to their garden. For the rest of that morning, my father remained by my side, grasping me in a firm embrace, as if he never intended to let me go again.

***

The elf village in Þingvellir was perched upon the eastern shore of þingvallavatn, and sheltered by a ridge of hills on its other side. A modest hamlet of about two dozen turf-houses and a central communal square. The sight of it took me straight back to my childhood.  
I was shown around, introduced to the various families as 'Afi's' son. The people were friendly - a motley assortment of elves and other vættir, ranging from infants to ancient elders, who exhibited a warm curiousity about me. They made offerings of food and asked about where I had come from. However, I could not bring myself to speak of Lazytown, or Mr Rotten.

As we passed through the town square, two plucky little elf-girls came running up to us, one carrying a soccer ball.  
'Afi! Afi! Will you play with us?'  
'As long as my son Spartacus can join us, okay?' He delivered a spry wink my way.  
The girls examined me with guarded fascination, and nodded in agreement.

We took the game out onto a level field of grass, and soon our noise and commotion attracted more children from the village. I became acquainted with each and every one of these youngsters through this activity. They seemed to be healthy and confident, quite used to running around freely outside - I suspected Pabbi's influence here. Unable to resist showing off, I appealled to them with a series of ball tricks, which they gawped at appreciatively. By the time they were called home by their parents, I had made several new friends.

That afternoon, after his large helpings of Penny's lamb stew, Pabbi drew me outside again. 'There's somebody I want you to meet,' he told me.  
We ascended one of the rocky hills outside the village. As we drew closer to the top, the magnificent sight of a saffron-coloured silk balloon could be glimpsed.  
Docked safely within an outcrop of rocks was an old-fashioned elf airship, including an elegant wooden gondola. 'Say hello to Brynhildur,' Pabbi announced. 'A trusty steed, if ever there was one.'

He ushered me inside the cabin, which was quite different to the sleek modern setup that I was used to. 'She belonged to your grandfather, who passed it onto me. Quite a sturdy old girl, and very well travelled. Come, hop into the helm!'  
I did so, and touched the wooden steering wheel- still strong, but clearly well-worn from many decades of use. While it looked different, something about this airship felt almost comforting.  
'I have my own airship too, you know. Given to me as a gift from the Fairy Queen for my years of service at Cowan Bridge. I docked in a harbour near Reykjavik.'  
'Well, well! I would love to be acquainted, son. Let's go fetch her!'

***

As his gaze roved over the chrome control panel of my own airship, Pabbi's frown deepened.  
'Elf engineers these days,' he grumbled. 'Why, I never.'

'The helm can be pedal powered,' I pointed out, indicating the pilot's seat to him.  
He shook his head. 'I just don't understand this newfangled technology. It's all just a bastardisation of those human computer contraptions, with a few elven charms thrown in for novelty. Your grandfather, Númer Átta, helped to build Brynhildur with his own hands, back in the heyday of airborne dirigibles. Elves really knew how to make them, back then. Not many folk know that it was the humans who borrowed _our_ tech to make their own airships! On her first mission, Brynhildur made it to the Cape of Good Hope and back within-'  
'-Pabbi...' I said suddenly, 'Why did you leave me?'

He deflated, and turned from me, staring out at the iron grey harbour. 'It's just what was done, I suppose. Tradition. When I was a boy, I barely saw anything of your grandfather, while he was out helping the humans. For months at a time, sometimes even years, he would be gone. I had anticipated that we would be much the same. But then your mother died.'

He sat down heavily in the pilot's seat. 'Please try to understand... it was just too much for me. The grief was like drowning. I had thought she would always be my safe harbour, my homecoming, the one to raise my son. But then she was gone, and I was adrift, and I had no idea how to be a father to you. Sara had her Jón, so I thought leaving you in her care was the best option. As much as I loved you, I just couldn't bring myself to return, to be haunted by the memory of my poor sweet wife, right there in your little face.'

'Aunt Sara was cruel,' I said quietly. 'And then she cast me off to Cowan Bridge.'  
Pabbi was silent for a long time.

'I'm sorry. I can't correct my past mistakes, and by thunder, I have spent many sleepless, tearful nights regretting them. You deserved better, Spartacus. And it seems the gods have finally tried to remedy those mistakes, flinging you into my path. I am so, so grateful that they did. For what it's worth, I can now be the father to you that you should have had, all along. If you can forgive me.'

I looked at him directly, catching his contrite expression. 'You know that cousin Jón and Aunt Sara recently died.'  
'Yes. Word eventually reached me. I'm afraid that I was travelling through Eastern Europe when it happened.'  
'I was summoned to set her affairs in order, sell the house, that sort of thing. I found something in the attic.'

I opened the panel of my cupboard, and reached up to the top shelf. Under a pile of boxes and bags was tucked the orange elf crystal hat. I placed it in Pabbi's hands, as his face fell open in wonder.  
'This was your grandfather's... I thought I would never see it again...!'  
I smiled at him. 'I am glad for the reunion, then.'  
He pulled me into another lengthy hug.

With a vigourous pat on my shoulder, he then asked, 'so what have you been up to, then? Have you collected any other artefacts during your own travels?'  
He noticed one of the boxes, sitting on the floor with its lid askew. Peeking out of this was my navy blue frock coat.  
'I say, that's a handsome garment. It looks bespoke!'

Pabbi reached for it, but I beat him to it. I crammed the box back into the cupboard, dumped the rest of the clutter atop it, and closed the cupboard panel.  
'That's nothing, Pabbi. Please don't worry about it.'  
Of course, he wasn't fooled, but he had the grace to let his questions go.

***

It had been a long day. I had piloted my airship over to the village, as Pabbi had flown his own back. The arrival of my ship had sparked a multitude of questions from the village children, not to mention a few of their parents. The increasing curiousty about me finally propelled me to give some scant details. I told the others that I had been teaching orphans in a small human town. I was thankful that they did not pry much further than this - the conversation then turned to the percieved strangeness of humans and their customs.

I sprawled myself on the rug that evening, watching Stefán as he played with an array of colourful soft toys. Jives brought in a massive basket of freshly picked produce from the garden, and began to wash and sort them on the kitchen countertop.  
'You're good with kids, guy.'  
'Thanks,' I replied, 'I have always enjoyed teaching.'  
'You know, you could be a godsend to the village parents. Keeping the rugrats occupied, out of trouble. They loved playing football with you and Afi today.'  
'You could form a village junior football team,' came Penny's suggestion as she strode in with a basket of clean laundry. 'Train 'em up and have them kick the arses of every other elf kid from the other villages.'

I laughed. 'I don't know about that... but coaching them would be wonderful.'  
I tossed a soft cloth ball across the rug, and Stefán bounded off to catch it.

That night, as I lay in my airship bed, I dozed in the bleary realm of semi-wakefulness. My body was tired, still recovering from the earlier sugar meltdown. I was more than ready for a solid deep sleep.  
As my faculties dulled and I dropped into rest, I suddenly felt a long, slender pair of arms encircle me, and soft breath tickle the back of my neck. A sense memory, perhaps, a delirium born of habit. For a moment, it felt as if Mr Rotten was right there in the room with me, laying by my side, softly uttering my name.

I shot up in bed, and suddenly found myself crying bitterly.


	15. Chapter 15

The following morning, I stood in a field, holding a soccer ball under my arm, and encircled by a group of keen youngsters. I explained the structure of five-a-side soccer to them, already teaming up the children in my head: it would not to do to have the small, clumsy five-year-olds at the mercy of the strapping teenagers in the group. (Some looked to be part troll, at that.)

The day passed in a lively succession of matches, with turf flying and supportive parents hollering from the sidelines. I acted as referee; it was heartening to see how invested the children were in the game, there were very few occasions where I had to correct a player's sportsmanship. As I mentioned before, these children were all spirited athletes used to outdoor activity, even the less skilled ones. Pabbi had clearly set up a precedent here.

The afternoon ended with a final match between the teenagers and a group of wiry, zippy tween girls, who managed to weave their way around their larger rivals to score a 0 - 1 victory. A grand prize was improvised in the form of a dish full of Summer berries, which were shared amongst all the players.  
'Let's hear it for our ref!' Pabbi cried, raising my hand. The spontaneous burst of impassioned cheers almost brought tears to my eyes.

'This could be the start of something,' he told me, as we headed off to Penny and Jives' for dinner. 'There are many sports that these kids are yet to be taught...'

And so a ritual began: every weekend, and every afternoon when the school hall was vacated, the children of the village woud meet with me to play a variety of games. Some days were simply organised rounds of tag and hide-and-seek, while on other days I introduced the rules of handball, softball and hockey. I often prepared these lessons with an enthusiastic bout of research beforehand. The children responded eagerly, parents were given respite and reassurance that their offspring could run about outdoors in relative safety, and I found a new sense of purpose.  
Sometimes Pabbi would actively join in these lessons, sometimes he would merely watch. But his silent pride in my deeds was always palpable.

You must not think that I had forgotten my former life in Lazytown. Indeed, the similarity of my role here served as a constant, poignant reminder. Getting to know these elf children, I could not stop myself from comparing their varied temperaments to the human orphans I had left behind - comparing them to my poor, forsaken Stephanie. I silently hoped that wherever Mr Rotten had sent his wards, they were under good and loving care. I also thought of kind, patient Mr Meanswell, and saw his generosity reflected in the adults of the village.

Once night had fallen, and the other elves had settled into well-earned and untroubled sleep, I would often pace the length of my airship, staring out at the stars. I knew little rest. And when memories of Mr Rotten came to me, unbidden - his snarling laughter, flashing eyes, and worshipful touch - so did the most severe heartache. On many nights, I reached for a pen and paper, tempted to write to him. A part of me was desperate to break the embargo that I had forced on myself. Even if I could see his face again for a day, an hour, fifteen blasted minutes!  
But every time, my reason won out. It scolded me, reminding me sternly of his betrayal, and I reluctantly put my stationery away before I could write a single word. Before the sun rose, I always managed to wrestle this anguish back into submission.

'Everything alright?' Pabbi asked me, as we watched my charges play with a set of colourful hula hoops that I had bought on a trip into Reykjavik. 'You look a tad peaky.'  
I shook my head and smiled tightly. 'I'm fine. A little trouble sleeping, that's all.'  
'Jives has a lavender and chamomile tea that could help with that, so I'm told.' He got to his feet, and grabbed one of the hoops. 'Come. Getting you on your feet will keep you from nodding off. Or wallowing in unpleasant memories,' he added pointedly.  
I remained silent as I followed his lead.

***

Autumn came, and with it, dramatically shortening days. By October, the sun was dipping low in the sky well before seven o'clock, and parents were bidding their children to return to the warmth of home. It was becoming harder and harder to conduct afternoon playtime.  
I found myself sprawled on Penny & Jives' rug one grey afternoon, helping a fast-sprouting Stefán to stack some coloured blocks. I absently mentioned this hardship, almost feeling guilty for complaining.  
'You know,' said Penny, busy pruning a potted tree sapling, 'there _is_ the old stone smithy that belonged to Kristófer's dad. Just outside of the village, halfway up the hillside. No-one's used it for years, but with a few improvements it could make a nice little sports hall.'

I thanked the good woman for the idea. That very night, I consulted the town elders, including Pabbi. They were all equally receptive: it would provide a wholesome community project, make good use of the old abandoned structure, and keep the elders' grandchildren from getting underfoot all Winter long. The very next morning, I headed out to the smithy with Pabbi, to see how much work it would need.

The smithy was another longhouse-style building - a little dishevelled, but with good bones of strong stacked stone. The moment I set foot inside, my crystal glowed upon my chest with a gentle golden light.  
  
Pabbi's head snapped around to the sight.  
'What is that!?'  
I smiled sheepishly. 'I think the crystal recognises its birthplace. I never told you - before he was sent to Cowan Bridge, Kristófer managed to forge one elf crystal with his father's help. It would have been within this building. He passed it onto me.'  
Pabbi continued staring at me thoughtfully. 'Interesting... the way things tend to come full circle like that.'

There were a few holes in the roof, and the packed earth floor needed to be covered with some smooth hardwood. Jives and a number of other parents pitched in to assist with the rennovations, whenever they could spare a few hours. But for Pabbi and I, it became a full time commitment. I began to sleep better than I had for a long, long while.  
Electricity and plumbing required installation. Doors and window frames needed to be fitted. The interior walls required re-panelling and a good lick of paint. All the anxiety that had haunted me from past months was now thrown into my new obsession.  
By December, the village had a bright, heated sports hall, ready for use.

At Yuletime, the village gathered inside the hall and blessed it with the gifts of sports equipment and an array of toys - soft foam play blocks, a ping-pong set, and two basketball hoops at each end. The village youth worked off the rich Yuletime feast by putting these new playthings to good use. Their merry, bounding activity, and the gratified smiles of their parents, proved to be my own treasured gift.

***

One afternoon, shortly after the end of Yule, I was seeing the children off from the sports hall after a sprited session of basketball. Fat flecks of snow floated down though the gloom, and I ensured that each child did not leave the hall until an older family member had come to fetch them. Once the last child had been farewelled with his grandfather, I began to pack away the balls and sundries.  
  
'Hello, Spartacus.'  
The hall door opened once again to reveal Pabbi. A little flurry of snow flitted about his feet, and his face was unusually pensive. He had been away for a few days, on an errand to the Fairy Queen's Court.  
'Welcome back, Pabbi. How was the trip?'  
'Interesting, though a little agitating. I went to settle some paperwork in relation to the Íþróttaálfar legacy. Unexpectedly, I discovered a rather interesting tale, only half-told. I am impatient to hear its outcome. Sit.'

He directed me to a bench by the wall, and he perched by my side. As he looked to me, I felt a slight, creeping unease, as if I were being scrutinised.  
'Long ago, there was a license issued by the Fairy Queen, allowing the Íþróttaálfar and their descendants to travel freely about in the human world. I was told that a copy of this license somehow fell into the hands of an employee of some countryside landowner, a human-elf halfling by the name of Robert Rotten.'

My cheeks flushed with heat. He no doubt caught this, as his eyes narrowed slightly.  
'The employee was a teacher and child care professional, a young elf, registered as one of the changelings of Cowan Bridge. He had been selected by Mr Rotten's custodian, one Milford Meanswell, to take care of Mr Rotten's five recently adopted wards. Little American orphans. He had received the Fairy Queen's license from his paternal aunt, recently deceased.'

'It was my displeasure to hear that this Mr Rotten was found to be entirely fraudulent. Not the heir to the title he claimed. That honour fell to his older brother, a mentally ill shut-in, looked after in secret by a djinn caretaker. According to the last will and testament of the late Dr Rotten, it was this poor invalid who must give approval to all family arrangements: marriages, inheritance, even adoption. Not only had Mr Rotten adopted those children illegally, but he had also proposed marriage to his elf employee, completely concealing the fact of his brother's existence-'

'If you know all that,' I blurted, my heart pounding, 'then tell me: how is Mr Rotten now? Where is he? Is he well? What about the children, are they safe?'  
Pabbi frowned deeply. 'I know nothing further of Mr Rotten, nor do I care to. To deceive you and trifle with you so, he must have been a bad man-'  
'You don't know him, don't pronounce an opinion upon him!' I said heatedly.  
My father sighed, and rested a hand upon my shoulder. 'I mean no ill will. I do not know what your own experience of the matter was. All I can say is that I am sorry that you were wronged.'  
I stared down at the floor.

'Anyway,' he continued, 'My initial purpose in visiting the Fairy Queen was quite different. Do you not wish to hear it?'  
'I suppose,' I shrugged.  
'You know I have retired from my role. After being told you were dead, I had believed that was the end for the Íþróttaálfar. That the line would die with me.'  
I looked back up at him.  
'But this... _miracle_ \- this wonderful reunion of father and son - has revived my hopes. I have watched you over these past months. You are truly are a chip off the old block, just as I always imagined you.'  
'Thank you Pabbi.'  
'I know you have been restless, trying to throw your disquiet into your little projects - soccer games, building this hall, that sort of thing. But I can see a bigger future for you. The one that was originally your birthright. Spartacus, you must become the tenth Íþróttaálfur.'

This hit me heavily. 'Does that mean I will have to leave here? Travel from town to town on my own?'  
He nodded. 'It is not an easy life. But you are your father's son, and you have the mettle for it, the brave adventuresome spirit. I would prefer that you pilot Brynhildur, but I suppose you can travel in that flying blue computer you call an airship, if you must.'  
I let out a large breath. 'Can I at least think about this first?'  
'Of course! You have plenty of time to prepare! For one thing, you will first need to marry and sire the eleventh Íþróttaálfur.'

This was certainly news to me!  
'I will never marry,' I announced firmly.  
Pabbi huffed. 'If you retain some sort of foolish sentimental affection for that Mr Rotten scoundrel, or for his wayward wards, you must relinquish it. You have an obligation to your legacy to think about.'  
A sharp, metallic anger rose in my throat, and I bit my tongue hard.  
'Góða nótt, Pabbi,' was all I could bring myself to say, as I crossed the floorboards and swooped out of the hall.

***

My irritation did not last long - we reached a tenuous truce after a few days. I kept up my playtime with the children, and Pabbi would visit the sports hall regularly. It did gladden my spirits to see him watch the sessions with his wordless delight. But within the week, he began to approach the families afterwards. He started to make introductions between myself, and the pretty older sisters and single aunts of my charges. Some of these women were thankfully heedless of the attempted matchmaking, though some took an aggressive interest in me. It was a delicate balancing act to remain civil but firmly disinclined.

This began to escalate. On Valentine's Day, Pabbi invited me to dinner in his old-fashioned airship. I was happy with the prospect of one-on-one time with my father. I was dismayed to arrive, and find that he had set up a candlelit dinner between myself and a dark haired elf woman by the name of Agneta.  
Pabbi thumped me on the back heartily. 'She is a cousin of your precious Kristófer. A nice girl of good blood - no ancestry tainted by trolls or fae or humans.'  
What passed was one of the more awkward meals of my life. Agneta was polite, a little too polite, in fact. Suffice it to say no deep rapport was made.

It transpired that Agneta was also the older sister of two of the village children, speedy twin boys who made excellent point guards in basketball. She was soon collecting her brothers at the sports hall, and I strongly suspected Pabbi's hand in this. Our stilted small talk continued, and every day, I spied Pabbi watching the two of us - when he didn't barge in directly to sing my praises.

Within a few weeks, the first signals of Springtime seeped into the frigid landscape. I took advantage of the lengthening daylight to go on morning runs through the hills, burning off my accumulated tension. One morning, feeling quite restless, I awoke well before dawn, anxious to feel the clean and chilly air on my face.

'Good morning, son.' Pabbi was sitting in the village square, a thermos in his hand. 'Tea?'  
'No thank you. I was going to go for a run.'  
He nodded, and took a long sip. 'You know, I hear Agneta likes to go for runs at-'  
'I don't care what Agneta wants, Pabbi.' My voice was firm, but I did not shout. 'We have been well acquainted, thanks to you, and I can confidently say that we feel nothing more than polite regard for one another.'

Pabbi sighed. 'You're not going to like this.'  
My nerves hardened. 'Pabbi?...'  
'I have spoken with Agneta and her parents... a betrothal was agreed to last night. I would have preferred for you to have more than a marriage of convenience, but... well, there it is. You must produce an heir, Spartacus. What will become of the Íþróttaálfar if you don't?'

Words momentarily escaped me. All I could so was pace furiously about the square. I kicked at the dirt.  
'What about my freedom, Pabbi!? What about my right to choose my own life?'  
'That is not the lot of a hero like you. A hero must devote himself to a life of service. That is the legacy you were born into.'  
'I was not born into it. You left me, for most of my life I have not had a father, or a legacy. And you would have me do the same? Fertilise some poor woman whom I don't love, then take off in my airship and leave her to fend for herself? Only to come back and dictate the same life of lonely servitude to this heir? You want me to be a father and husband, and yet deny the very purpose of those roles.'  
'It's tradition,' he insisted.  
'I have no interest in tradition, if it means condemning my family line to live a loveless existence!'

Pabbi dropped down onto an obliging stone, and heaved a deep sigh.  
'You are young, and passionate, and I suppose this initial resistance is only natural,' he murmured. 'Perhaps a loveless marriage is actually preferable, now that I think about it. I adored your mother with every fibre of my heart... and that proved disatrous for both of us.'  
He smiled a callous, unsettling smile. 'Yes... I am confident this betrothal is the right course for you. You will come to agree, given time.'  
'I barely know what's right anymore,' I responded.  
'Then leave it to the Gods, and the breath of nature. They led you here to me, and they will continue to light your path. Enjoy your run, Spartacus.'

I took off into the hills at high speed, desperate to escape the cruel edicts of the man I loved so dearly and resented so sorely.  
Sweat broke upon my brow. My chest and my legs burned gloriously with exertion. The wilderness about me was pure and cold and beautiful - still dormant in the final grips of Winter, with the last flickering stars dotting the milky sky above.

I reached the crest of one of the highest hills, upon which grew a twisted old apple tree. Its skeletal branches were only just bearing the very first delicate white blossoms of the year.  
I leant upon the trunk, taking a swig from my water bottle, my breaths deep and rattling. Slowly, the first timid, soft rays of morning crept up from the horizon, melting through the landscape to shine upon me.

'Sportacus!'  
The voice was like a bolt of lightning, jolting my already frayed nerves. It must have been an hallucination of my fevered mind.  
'Sportacus!'  
It came again, and my body flooded with heat. My crystal burst to life, flashing and singing clearly. The voice of Mr Rotten was just as clear, and laden with a heart-rending sorrow.  
'Mr Rotten... Robbie, where are you?...'

I ran back down the hill, the voice echoing in my head. Pabbi was right, the Gods were once again lighting my path. My purpose as a hero was now manifest - my beloved needed rescuing.  
'Robbie!... I'm coming!...'

Back in the village, I frantically sought my father, who was nowhere to be seen. Jives and Penny were up, carrying tools towards their garden.  
'My friends... if you see my father, tell him I have a journey to make. I will be in touch as soon as I can!'  
'Sportacus... wh...'  
'Bless bless! 

I scurried up the airship ladder and took off immediately, following the voice of my dearest Robbie, across the wide, sunlit sea.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another character death in this chapter, as well as many clumsy allegories to Norse mythology.

I could not pilot my airship fast enough. On my flight over the ocean, each minute seemed an hour. I tried in earnest not to dwell on notions of what might have happened to Mr Rotten. I resolved to trust the feeling in my gut - he was still alive, I was sure, and in a state that was not beyond help. The forces that were leading me onwards had always prevailed before, and so I laid my trust in them once more.

I reached land, and impatiently watched familiar landmarks drift past below: suburbs, a great city, a twisting river, a network of farmland, a mountain chain. At last, I arrived in the region where Lazytown lay.

A little hope, and a little excitement, began to bubble up within me. I did not know what changes may have been rendered to the town since departing - who would still be there? Had the town been made more secure? When would I see the children again? The most anxious need I had was to have Mr Rotten's pale, fierce eyes cast upon me - whether it be with affection, anger, or disgust.

I finally sailed over the last of the mountains, coming upon the verdant meadows of the valley, to find a blackened ruin.

My gaze darted about each well-loved building: those which were not utterly burnt-out shells were still greatly damaged, scorched and misshapen. The trees were black skeletons, the town hall was missing a pillar and a large chunk of its roof. Its interior looked to be a hollow mess.

I descended to the ground. When I had known it, Lazytown had always been alive with birdsong and the noise of children at play. The fragrance of blossoms and the petrichor of greenery had once perfumed its air. Now all was ghostly silence, and the dry funk of scorched earth. With a chill, I remembered what Mr Rotten had told me about his brother: Glanni had a talent for casting fire.

In the distance, I spied Mr Meanswell's cottage: strangely unharmed. A single monument of colour and solidity, enduring here amongst the ruins. The billboard, however, was little more than a pile of twisted metal.  
I stood in the middle of this devestation, paralysed.

'It's a sad sight, isn't it, Mr Sportacus?'  
I turned to behold The Persian, standing before the town hall.  
'What happened here?' I begged of him.

'It was the very night you left. Robbie was in a wild state, near-mad with despair. He barged into Glanni's room and assailed me again, ranting and raving and shaking me by the collar. In his view, I was the reason that you had departed. Glanni saw this, and flew into his own rage, lashing out against his brother for the first time ever. As Glanni's long-time caretaker, I...' He stopped here for a moment, colllecting himself. 'I believe he felt some sort of loyalty towards me.'

'After a brief scuffle, Glanni slipped from the room, free and furious and loose in the town. Robbie and I rushed after him, only to find that he had climbed atop the billboard, hurling about great volleys of flame. By the time we surfaced, half of Lazytown was already alight.'

'Robbie's immediate reaction was to gather up the children, Mr Meanswell and the townspeople. They were very quickly rushed to safety. I met Glanni's firestorm with my own magic: I managed to cast a quick protection spell upon Mr Meanswell's cottage,' here he gestured to the intact structure, 'and I deflected his fire spells away from any remaining people.'

'Once the town was vacated, Robbie came for me, insisting that I stand down. He called up to his brother, imploring him to stop. But Glanni was too far gone in his fury. Many years of such close captivity had perhaps built up a bitter resentment. Despite my cries of protest, Robbie too ascended to the top of the billboard, to reach his twin. Glanni turned on him, launched another fire spell in Robbie's direction... the billboard warped and buckled under the heat, and it collapsed with the two brothers.'

My heart had become a dense, aching hollow. 'Dear Óðinn!...'

'The emergency workers that Mr Meanswell had prudently called arrived at this time. Paramedics pulled both brothers from the debris. Glanni could not be revived. Robbie spent several months in intensive care. He has since regained mobility, but has sustained a number of injuries that he will bear for the rest of his life. Chief of which is the loss of his twin brother. I-'

'Where is he?' I interrupted. 'How is he coping? Will he see visitors?'

The Persian frowned at me thoughtfully. 'He has seen no-one but myself since that night. He has turned away all visitors: Ms Busybody, Ella, Mr Meanswell. I'm sorry to say that the damage he has suffered physically is second only to the devastation wrought within him. He is not the man he once was, Mr Sportacus.'

'You know that I don't care about such things, surely. Please, I just want to see him as soon as possible!'

He nodded. 'Very well then. He's sitting in the cottage, in Mr Meanswell's old armchair.'

I was jolted by this - it had not crossed my mind that Mr Rotten would have remained here in the wreckage. He was close to me even now, my heart began thumping hard.  
'Thank you,' I said to The Persian, shaking his hand. 'You are a true and loyal friend to him.'

***

I slowly pushed open the bright red door to the cottage. The lights were off - the only thing keeping darkness away were glowing embers in the hearth. The old stuffed armchair was pulled close to the fireplace, facing away from me. I could tell he sat there, even without seeing his face. Just like our first meeting here, long ago, a shyness crept upon me.

'Shut the door, blasted djinn, you're letting in a draught.' Oh, his husky, drawling voice!  
I did so, and padded cautiously across the carpet. With reverence, I faced him. I was heartbroken by what I saw.

He looked so wilted - paler and sadder than I had ever seen him. No proud pompadour; his hair was a frightful mess of wavy tangles. Severe burn marks marred his handsome face, as well as a deep scarring over his right eye, the lid looked almost fused shut. He sat morose and listless, curled up in his tatty dressing gown. I was about to speak, when he looked up at me with his left eye, which was stone blind.  
  
'Well? are you going to fix me my tea, man?'  
I remained silent.  
He harrumphed. 'What do you want, djinn? Stop standing there like a simpleton.'  
With a quiver in my voice: 'The Persian is outside, sir.'

He started as if struck by lightning. 'I... no, I am going mad...! It's not him... I only dream I can hear his voice!...'  
His scarred hand grabbed helplessly at the still air, and found my own.  
He gasped an astonished sob. 'H...his little fingers! What delusion is this!?'  
'It is no delusion, sir, I am quite real.'

Tears spilled on his cheeks, from both his left eye and the knotted wound on his right. 'My heart may burst...!'  
He groped for my arms, my torso, and I gingerly eased into his lap.  
'Sportacus... my living, darling elf! I cannot be so blessed!?'  
I took his shaking hands, and held them to my face. 'It is me, sir... I have come back.'  
  
He kissed at my palms frantically, like a lost animal seeking comfort.   
'You are not dead in some ditch or lost in a faraway land?'  
'No, sir. I visited Iceland, and was reunited with my father. Alive, after all these years. He asked me to take over his legacy, and become the tenth Íþróttaálfur. I turned it down, because I wished to return to you.'  
A rough chuckle through his tears: 'You must be real - I couldn't possibly imagine such detail!'  
I responded to his laugh, and pressed up against him close, dropping kisses on his damaged face.

We sat together like this for some time - cuddled close, trading kisses, allowing frantic heartbeats to slow. He then turned serious.  
'You were offered the role of a what?'  
'The tenth Íþróttaálfur. My father was the ninth, before he retired. I would be required to travel the world, coming to the aid of human children in distress.'  
'Sounds like the sort of valiant role that you would excel at.' He released a heavy breath. 'You would not be free to pursue such a destiny, if you were chained to the side of a blind cripple.'  
'Well, that's a shame, sir. Because I would greatly like to come to your own aid. Based on your scruffy appearance, I'd say you are very much a child in distress!' I began combing black tresses off of his brow with my fingers.

***

Upon my insistence, I took him walking through the still-verdant meadows outside the town. He leant upon my arm.  
'Do you see a large ash tree, overlooking the lake?' He asked.  
I looked about for it. 'Yes, just to our left.'  
'That is where my brother is buried.'  
I let a reverent moment of silence pass before responding. 'I am truly sorry for your loss.'

'It is I who should be sorry. I did not do right by my poor brother. While I provided him with care, keeping his very existence secret was sickening to the soul. I can only hope that his spirit is now free and at peace.'  
I looked up to the budding springtime branches of the tree, and thought of Yggdrasill. 'I believe he is.'  
'I committed a great injustice against all of those connected with me: Glanni, the poor long-suffering Persian, yourself, Milford and those little brats. This deformity at least is a suitable penance.' He gestured to his face with his free hand.

I did not like this miserable train of thought, and sought to distract him by asking questions that I dearly wanted answers to. 'Where are the children now?'  
'I ensured that your desires were carried out. As I sat in the ambulance that night, I commanded to The Persian that Milford and the children be put in Bessie's care. Ever since, they have been settled in the glorious Summertime villa of the Busybody sisters. I hear that old Stina has not set foot there since. Of course, my adoption of them was revealed to be entirely illegal. While Bessie and Milford are serving as capable foster parents, the brats are no longer my wards.'

We had reached the top of a gently sloping hill, dotted with crocuses. I helped him to sit down upon the soft, sunny grass.  
'Mr Rotten... what is the situation regarding your family now? Legally, I mean?'  
A sneer crossed his face. 'Well, as the oldest surviving son, the town and its dominion has fallen to me. The great heir,' he grumbled.  
'So you could possibly have your adoption of the children re-instated...?'

He turned my way, somehow still fixing me with a mesmerising look in spite of his blindness. 'You are anxious to see them again, aren't you? You are more their father than I am.'  
I blushed a little at this.  
'Sportacus... I don't want an assisant, some impersonal staff member that kowtows to me. I cannot endure that sort of stiff, formal companionship. I want a partner, an equal, a lover and friend.'

I regarded him tenderly 'Mr Rotten... Robbie, I-'  
'And if you are intending to leave to become the tenth... Ithro-elf or what have you, I want you to tell me now, rather than leading me on. What is your intention?'  
His voice was hard, and this stung me a little.

'My father desperately wants me to take on the role,' I answered flatly. 'And in fact, he has even arranged a betrothal for me.'  
Mr Rotten's brow dipped low. 'What!?'  
'A cousin of one of my old school friends. Her name is Agneta, and she is a beautful young elf woman.'  
His nostrils flared sharply. 'Smart? Charming?'  
'Yes, very much so.'

He pounded a fist helplessly into the grass. 'Well, so nice that you've come to visit, to see if mangled old Mr Rotten is at least still alive! I hope you've relieved your guilty conscience! Off with you then, fly away back to Iceland, to your wife and your accursed Intro-elfin duties!!'  
He crossed his arms and turned away from me. I felt a little guilty for my mischief.  
'No,' I told him. 'I'm staying right here.'  
'When you have a pretty girl waiting for you?'

I placed my hands gently upon his face, and kissed his brow. 'I will not marry Agneta. I do not love her, and she has no feelings for me. My father's matchmaking has been quite misguided. You can try to push me away all you like sir- I will not budge. But I do prefer this grumpy tantrum to your earlier misery.'  
'You are a mocking little changeling.'  
I laughed. 'And you have no need to be jealous.' I kissed him again.

His face fell. 'I do not want you to make such a sacrifice, if it pains you. I have always been grumpy, and now I am scarred and blind as well. You deserve so much better than this.'  
This piteous remark stirred me. 'I deserve,' I announced, 'to choose what I love best. And, Mr Rotten: if ever I did a good deed, if ever I thought a good thought, if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer... my best reward is to be your husband.'

He said nothing, but pulled me close to him, resting his face upon my shoulder.  
'You will think this absurd...' he said eventually. 'A few nights ago, I was in such a bout of depression, fully feeling my hopeless and lonely state. Some time after midnight, restless and frantic, I burst open the door to the cottage, and hollered your name to the skies.

I thought back to the sunrise over the elf village. I made a quick reckoning of time difference. 'After midnight?' I asked. 'About one a.m. would you say?'  
'I honestly couldn't tell. I was so possessed by my sorrow. But then, the strangest feeling of calm overcame me, just after my outburst. As if, somehow, the gods themselves resolved to guide me, and reassured me that all would be well. I returned inside and savoured the most peaceful sleep I had known for months. As if something within me knew you would return... call it blind faith, I suppose.' He chuckled at his own tasteless joke.

His words dropped deep down within me, lingering like nectar on my fingers, long after we returned to the cottage.


	17. Chapter 17

Reader, I married him.  
A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the registrar, Mr Meanswell, and the children were present. After the ceremony, we went to the Busybody sisters' villa for a tranquil luncheon. No grand tour of continental Europe, simply a stroll through Bessie's flower garden, his hand clasped in mine.

A number of emotional reunions had preceded this happy event. The day before, Stephanie had run tearfully to my arms, gripping me in a hug that quite winded me. I apologised to her for breaking my promise of a quick return, but she would have none of it, insisting that the disaster in Lazytown had not been my fault.

Instead, once soothed, she was eager to tell me all about her time spent at the villa with the other children. She had kept the faith: instead of allowing her playmates to fall back into their old habits of bickering and long spells of screen time, she had led them in wholesome outdoor activities: football, dancing, chasing games, and even nature walks, the latter supervised by Mr Meanswell. This was apparent in the robust health of my little charges; they were as elated to see me as I was to see them. They were all too keen to pick up where we left off, imploring me to play with them outside.

Before they were allowed this, Mr Meanswell sat them all down in the villa's living room. He advised them that Mr Rotten had changed since the last time they'd seen him, and they should be prepared to accommodate his new frailties.

The man himself had been hovering in the kitchen, having a hushed, intense discussion with Bessie. As he was ushered in to meet his former wards, the very air in the room grew thick with sympathy.

Stephanie slowly approached him: 'Hi, Robbie,' she said softly, taking his arm and leading him over to the sofa. Mr Rotten was quiet and rather sombre, he allowed the little girl to guide him without resistance.

The children sat around his feet reverently, taking in the scarring on his face; all wonder and open curiosity, no disgust. They began to ask bashful questions about where he had been, and how he was managing the loss of his eyesight. He answered calmly, honestly, without any white lies or sugar-coating. He told them all about Glanni. And when Ziggy asked him what would be happening now, Mr Rotten answered:

'I will ensure that Lazytown is rebuilt. I am its true master now, and no secrets remain within its chambers. Mark my words: I will spare no expense to restore that dear old place to its full splendour. And you will all have a home to return to there.'

***

Shortly after the wedding, I wrote to Penny, Jives, and Pabbi, to say what I had done - fully explaining my reasons and feelings behind my departure from Iceland. Penny and Jives wrote back, expressing passionate approval: the love of the children and my new husband was more than enough to justify everything. I received no written response from my father.

A few weeks later, Robbie and I were back in Lazytown, settled in the old cottage as we directed the hive of construction work around us. The Persian had been given leave to now do as he pleased - I was more than capable of assisting with my husband's practical daily needs. (It was an honour to serve as his eyes: on our countryside walks, I would describe the hue of the sky and the flight of the birds to him.)

One morning, as trucks trundled and power tools droned, Lazytown was visited by an old-fashioned dirigible with a saffron-coloured silk balloon.

The first meeting between Robbie and my father crackled with ill sentiment. Pabbi disparaged Robbie for decieving me about his brother, then Robbie lay in some scorn of his own: he felt that Pabbi had no right to try and control my adult life, when he had been so absent during my childhood.

I told the pair that any enmity between them would only serve to hurt me more - after this, they grudgingly attempted to forge a truce. Pabbi stayed with us for a while longer, offering his assistance with the town's reconstruction. I decided to take this as a sincere peace offering.

I kept waiting for him to talk me around to the role of the tenth Íþróttaálfur again. But then, the children came for one of their frequent visits to the town.

That day he watched us play, and dance, and learn, and he watched Stephanie act as my loyal lieutenant. He was quickly besotted with the little girl, who was just as impressed by him: seldom had I seen such a bond arise so quickly between a young and old soul. He was delighted with her cheerful energy, and she was awed by his vast knowledge of the wider world.

Mr Meanswell came to collect her that evening, and she reluctantly left for the villa, making Pabbi promise that they would meet again. As a token of this promise, he gave her the elf crystal from the tip of his cloth hat.  
'Those children of yours have made a deep impression upon me,' he confided later. 'Perhaps you do not need to travel the world in order to fulfill the duty of a true Íþróttaálfur...'

***

On a bright Summer's day, Mr Meanswell was invited to cut the ribbon of the brand new Lazytown town hall. At the celebration following this, he and Bessie joyfully announced their engagement.

'It was blue,' Robbie said to me later, as we sat together by one of the newly planted apple trees.  
'What?'  
'The ribbon. I think I saw a flash of bright, sapphire blue.'

I desperately tried to manage my expectations. The next week, we booked an appointment with a specialist in the city. After a consultation and an exam, she bore optimistic news: with a delicate procedure and a good dose of courage, the sight in Robbie's left eye could likely be improved.

Later that year, I passed a sheaf of adoption papers to my husband. He examined the page carefully, and was able to read out the names listed there, of our new sons and daughters: Ziggy, Stingy, Pixel, Trixie, Stephanie.

***

I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I Iove best in the world. I know no weariness of my Robbie's company, and he knows none of mine - any more than we do of our beloved children, who continue to grow into strong and thoughtful young individuals.

On one of our recent family trips to the elf village, Pabbi gifted Stephanie and I with beautifully crafted elven brooches, both designed to house an elf crystal upon the bearer's chest. One was royal blue emblazoned with a number ten, and the other was a soft flowery pink, adorned by a scrolling number eleven.

'You may do with these noble stations as you please, son and granddaughter,' he announced, 'I place my full trust in your judgement.'

We commemorated the event with a ball game played with the village children. All the day, we romped and bounded upon green Icelandic turf, tossing a blue rubber ball to and fro through the air.

**THE END**


End file.
